


Like I've Never Been Hurt

by xikra1648



Category: Criminal Minds (US TV)
Genre: Angst, Behavioral Analysis Unit (Criminal Minds), Bonding, Canonical Character Death, Character Growth, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, F/M, First CM Fic, Humor, May go through even more editing later, Mentions of childhood abuse and neglect, Recovery, Romance, bau, rating for safety, spans season 1 to just after season 4, super long chapters, warnings for safety
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-04
Updated: 2018-11-04
Packaged: 2019-08-17 16:57:50
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 8
Words: 32,207
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16520369
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/xikra1648/pseuds/xikra1648
Summary: Childhood scars are the ones that last the longest, especially emotional scars.  You had learned to read and study people at a young age, entirely because you needed to find a way to survive.  You would shut yourself down, focus on facts of manipulating what people thought about you.  There was a price to be paid for being born into old money, and until you were sixteen you suspected you would never find your way out.Despite your career in the BAU, parts of the world you desperately escaped still haunted you.  While it only took a few months for most members of the BAU to open up, it was closer to years before your walls actually started to soften.  You knew Emily long before she joined the BAU, Penelope and JJ went out of their way to get to know you from the first day you started, and Derek was constantly trying to talk you into going out with the rest of the team.  Yet, Dr. Spencer Reid was the one you opened up to first, and all because you had a very, very, specific 'type.'





	1. On And Off The Shelf (To A Broken State of Mind)

**Author's Note:**

> Started as one giant one-shot. Broke it up into pieces because it was eight pages and 4,000 words before I was done. Plus, there was a clear cut between when I was setting the scene and the general background and when shit got real.
> 
> Also, sapiosexual means sexually attracted to intelligence.
> 
> The whole thing was finished before I posted it. Might add a chapter nine, an entirely indulgent and steamy epilogue, but the story itself is finished.

# Like I've Never Been Hurt

### On And Off The Shelf (To A Broken State of Mind)

 

Any member of the original BAU that remained in the field their entire career had taken in their own protégé, in one way or another.  Young agents with a terrifying brilliance, a skill or talent that had to be honed properly lest it begin to destroy them.  People who needed to learn what the original profilers of the BAU the hard way, all so they wouldn’t fall apart in the same ways.  Teaching their protégé to do better, to _survive_ the job in ways they themselves hadn’t.  Agent Katherine Cole had, after switching gears to save victims of child pornography or trafficking, had taken in Agent Amanda Gilroy and tried to keep the young agent from getting too obsessed with the job.  Agent Jason Gideon had taken in Dr. Spencer Reid and tried to prove that every tragedy wasn’t his fault, despite his own genius there was only so much he could do.  Agent David Rossi had taken in you, getting you to open up even if just to a select few, that your life was – no matter how many of your relationships failed – too dark to spend alone.  You are only human.

You joined the BAU a matter of months before Gideon and Elle left, for their own reasons.

Even then you were distant.  You excelled in getting unsubs to do what you needed them to, setting them on edge or putting them at ease, telling you what you needed to hear.  Not just the unsubs, but the surrounding law enforcement, witnesses, experts, even victims.  You could be…so very distant.  You even seemed… _unreal_ at times.  Your hair was always perfectly styled, your makeup simple but never out of place, even the soft matte lipstick you wore, your attire carefully balanced on the line between functional and stylish.

Despite the rule against profiling each other, there were times Morgan and Elle broke that rule.  After a while…they dragged Spencer into it.  The worst part was you likely knew.

“Come on doc, what do you think?” Elle goaded as they gathered in the break room, you were back at your desk.  Elle and Morgan had already shared their opinions of you.  Pieces of the puzzle as they tried to figure out a coworker that was even less revealing than an organized unsub who wanted nothing but to _play a game._   To top things off, you were tight lipped about what you were doing with the vacation Hotch had managed to get the team.  Nothing more than _wine and books._

“Morgan’s right, it’s hard to get here at our age,” you were only a few months older than him, meaning somebody had fudged with the age restrictions to get you there, “She clearly has the skills to be here, but she also has someone backing her up, probably someone from the original BAU team.  And Elle, you were right to point out her hair, makeup, clothes, even her mannerisms are very carefully controlled, she never loses her temper.  But…I think it’s more complicated than that.  She grew up in an environment where she couldn’t just be herself, she learned to play a part when she was young, she always had to be someone else.  She knows how to manipulate people well enough that she doesn’t have to think about it, so it was a survival tactic as she grew up, but as far as legitimate social skills they’re below average, she’s overly critical of herself, and on cases she’s gone over a day before she’s had something to eat so her mother is likely hypercritical, which would explain why she has no pictures.  She’s also emotionally distant, isolates herself, so her father was either emotionally or even physically distant, which could also lead to fear of abandonment or rejection.”

“Could be she comes from a background where she was expected to sit back and shut up.  That’s not exactly easy for someone who can get an academic scholarship to Johns Hopkins and a Behavioral Psychology PhD at 22.”  Morgan pointed out.  Your IQ wasn’t nearly as high as Reid’s, at a 187, but it was safe to assume you were still well above average between 160 and 170.  With _genius_ being measured at 160, fitting into a place that expected you to be _normal_ or _traditional_ wasn’t going to work.

“But there’s _someone_ who gives a damn, sent a brand new notebook and pens for her birthday, there’s someone she calls after tough cases,” Morgan added to his additional conclusion, pointing out that you weren’t _completely_ alone.  At least, not anymore.

“Probably whoever got her here in the first place.  If you care about someone enough to convince the FBI to break its own rules you’re gonna check up on them.”  Elle made a good point, it was safe to assume that whatever family you had consisted of one person, “Probably a mentor that took on a parental role.”

They didn’t get to explore that line of thought, and the subject was entirely dropped.  The way things picked up, there was just no time.  The team was continuously busy, both with work and their private lives.  Far too busy to worry about the _ice queen_ in their midst.

“You’ve been here almost a year, you’ve been doing good work,” Rossi said as you and he looked over paint swatches for his office.  The same office that used to belong to Jason Gideon.  The others were still reeling by the time you made your peace with it.  You’d, privately, called him out on his ego, told him he’d break if he kept walking into the room like he was the only one who could solve the crime and kept turning every unsub into his personal nemesis.  The last time you had spoken about it was the moment it all clicked, and he decided it would be best to keep it to himself.

_“You’re one to talk.  This team is like a family, and yet you keep your distance,” he pointed out as he leaned back against his desk.  You’d been more and more at odds as he kept taking things more and more personally.  Frank had been the start of your tense relationship with the senior profiler, but Tobias Hankel capturing Dr. Reid had been the breaking point.  You didn’t personally blame Gideon, but for such an experienced agent he was such a fool, letting himself get emotional like that._

_There was time to get emotional later, **after** Dr. Reid was safe.  While his life was still in danger was not the time to be acting on instinct and emotion._

_“My personal life and professional lives are two very different things, there are a lot of people who spent even more time and money to make sure of that.  Trusting the abilities of my coworkers does not mean they’re welcome in my home.”  It was a calculated revelation, enough to let Gideon know just what kind of person he was dealing with, and it worked.  You weren’t about to go calling daddy to spend all his money on making your problems go away, you had joined the FBI because you wanted nothing but to get away from that life, but the damage had been done.  You had no trust left to give, too many scars to love freely, and frozen your heart to protect yourself._

_The team was chipping away at the walls and cold nature you had, but it was a facet of your personality since you were eleven.  It was going to take time._

It _did_ take time, partially because the rest of the team was functioning on the assumption you were nothing but an ice queen.  Then Emily came back into your life and you smiled so brightly as you hugged your old friend, your parents were hardly diplomats but international businessmen with money commonly have a need for politicians.  It was at that moment Garcia decided the girls of the BAU were going out for drinks.

You weren’t a warm and bubbly bundle of love, you likely wouldn’t be, but it wouldn’t be hard for the profilers to notice your own signs of affection, once they knew what to look for.  You were starting to open up, to really open up, and it just took the right team of people to figure you out.

“I get the feeling you’re not talking about the cases,” you mused as you looked over the swatches Rossi had picked out.  You really hoped these were just the base coats, because otherwise the room would just look like a cinderblock cell with overpriced decorations.  Seriously, who the hell hung original 15th Century art in their office?  Mentor or not, Rossi made some questionable choices.

“Rumor has it you’re going to the museum with Dr. Reid this weekend.”  You caught that tone.  It wasn’t _disapproval_ , and he was purposely trying too hard to sound like it was just a casual conversation.  He was teasing you, if only to point out that _he was right._

“The fact that you think a man and woman can’t go anywhere as just friends might have something to do with your three divorces,” you tossed the swatches onto the bare desk and crossed your arms to watch your mentor.  This was a battle of wits, he was going to say something.  He tried to hide it, but you saw how his gaze flitted towards the Bull Pen before he turned back to you.  Your observation skills were what caught the profiler’s attention in the first place, having been hired by your father to consult the local police as a stalker threatened him.  It wasn’t the first time, but it was the most violent and your old man wasn’t taking any chances.  You were sixteen, desperately trying to find your way out, and far too smart.

You needed someone to help you find yourself, and Rossi always helped kids caught in the middle of his cases.  You were caught in a different way, and you reminded him of himself when he was your age.  Still, it was more than that…despite your closed off nature…

You reminded him of Emma, even when he met you as the closed and distant teenager you'd been at sixteen.  He couldn’t _not_ help you find your own life, find a way to be happy and look after you like you were his own daughter.

“It has more to do with the fact you’ve got a very specific _type_ , and Dr. Reid is the first person I’ve ever met that’s smarter than you.  Most people in your place would take that as a challenge, even take it personally, but you just cozied up to him.”

“It’s a trip to a museum, there’s an exhibit we’re both interested in and going to the museum alone is like going to a restaurant alone in your 20’s,” you casually defended yourself.  Sure, you were sapiosexual, but what was the point of a relationship if the person you were talking to could be out-witted by a _rock?_   Eventually, the _honeymoon_ phase ends and it stops being ‘all sex all the time,’ and that’s when you start talking.  If you’re with someone that can’t keep up with you, he’s not worth your time.

You’d be friends with your co-workers, it took a while, and you were _so_ close to truly joining the family-like dynamic the others already shared, but you weren’t about to cross the line between friends and _lovers_.  That was just asking for trouble, even if it wasn’t against FBI regulations you weren’t about to take that risk.  Not in a job where having to choose between a fellow agent and innocent lives was something that could actually happen.  You couldn’t take that risk.

Later that evening, as you watched Spencer excitedly talking about something related to the exhibit, you couldn’t help but smile and watch as his eyes lit up and he rambled off facts even you didn’t know.  You couldn’t drag Spencer into your issues.  He had his own problems, and you were a disaster of a human being – assuming you could even be called that anymore.  You were so completely shut off from humanity, from letting yourself feeling anything, that you were capable of completely shutting down when a teammate was in trouble.  The fact that you could completely shut down at all was disturbing enough, considering either you or people you actually cared about were in danger when you did it…

That was one hell of a response, and it took some serious emotional damage to cause that kind of response in an otherwise normal individual.

The smile that graced your lips was bittersweet as the realization hit you.  You had let people in, let yourself actually _care_ enough to fall for someone, and even begun to let people see past your walls.  Now you found yourself falling for someone, _really_ falling for him, and you had to keep it to yourself.  Requited feelings or not…

You couldn’t bring him down with your bullshit.  That just…it wasn’t fair to _anyone_ , let alone someone patient enough to sit back and wait for you to open up – even if he’d already profiled you and known the chances of that even happening were nearly impossible.

 

\------------------------------------

 

The bombing in New York City had been hell.  Clearly Hotch was still recovering, you’d all noticed how he’d step away and cover his ear, simply not hear something, and some of the smaller scrapes still had yet to heal.  He _should_ be off field duty, but after Haley left the team leader was willing to do whatever it took to remain in the office.  Rossi would talk to Hotch later, just because you’d been willing to confront Gideon didn’t mean you were willing to confront Hotch, but right now there was a copycat killer replicating the _Angel Maker_.

That was the hope, anyway.  Considering the _actual_ Angel Maker had been put to death a year ago yet wasn’t to be found in his grave…you were actually hoping Spencer’s _eviler twin_ idea was true.

Luckily, it wasn’t, and you had some solid proof once Spencer realized the letters the deceased killer had written to a particular groupie were all… _wrong._   The poetry, the writing style, it was all wrong, even ignoring the fact that he was writing about a garden and birds while on death row.  Rossi was pacing around the table as he read over one of the letters, Spencer sitting as he tried to decipher the letters with you standing next to him, looking over the letters yourself.  Despite the heels you commonly wore, it wasn’t uncommon for you to chose to stand instead of sit while you worked.  You easily got restless –

That perfume you wore was distracting in all the best ways.  Light, subtle, like a clean rain at the beach, and you’d done nothing to correct the few strands that had fallen loose of the braided bun you had tied your hair into.  That act, your need to be that perfect girl was falling, they were counteracting whatever influence your parents had left on you.  The change could be seen visibly, as well as behaviorally.  Those little smiles you gave when someone said something you thought was endearing, the way you’d look at someone when they seemed to be challenging a member of the team in one way or another, JJ even had you helping her and Will with baby shopping when you were free.  Spencer helped where he could, but most of the time he’d end up on the sidelines with Will while you and JJ dealt with everything.

“Death row haiku,” Rossi placed the letter back onto the table and leaned over it, bracing himself with his hands on the table, “I mean, you have to try to write this bad.”

“I think he did.  I think he tried very hard to put each word, even each letter, in the right order.”  It was the only thing that made sense, especially with the way the original Angel Maker wrote all his other letters.  The pieces were coming together, his own mind working faster than he could as he reorganized the letters in an attempt to get everything to snap into place.

“It’s a code,” you surmised as you leaned over Spencer’s shoulder, scent of the mint gum you had spit out into the trash only minutes ago still fresh on your breath, “He communicated with her, maybe even taught her everything by writing these letters to her.”

“The steganographic method would allow them to send letters that don’t appear enciphered,” Spencer looked up at you as he began to explain, before realizing his mistake and quickly correcting it by looking back at Rossi, “The real message would be hiding in plain sight.”

So, there was only one way to know for sure.

“What do you need to crack it?”  It was a fair question, Rossi wasn’t one to ignore the fact that the only member of the team that could crack a code with no lexicon was Dr. Spencer Reid.  That look Reid gave him was a little concerning, though.

“The ability to clone myself and a year’s supply of Adderall.”

You were the first to respond, matching the doctor’s wit with, “You’ve got me and an old man with free access to your classic law enforcement coffee.”

You were going to be at it for a while, and Rossi had ignored that _old man_ comment for a different observation.

You weren’t just opening up to the team…for one very specific member…it was getting a little farther than that.  You would work with just about anyone, keeping things professional, but you wouldn’t share your unproven opinions or theories until you had _proof_.  With Reid, it was like you just decided _to hell with it_ and shared whatever came to mind.  That was how the two of you came to the idea of looking at everyone on Death Row and seeing if they could have shared some ideas, maybe leading to the source of the code.  From that point, and after figuring out the code was 24-bit binary, you were just doing what Spencer told you to do as he figured out how to crack the code.

Sure, you could have used a computer, but it was just faster to leave it to Spence, especially considering the dangerous amounts of caffeine running through his system.  You were concerned he wasn’t going to sleep for the next week.

Ironic it was you and Spencer deciphering these letters, JJ couldn’t help but think, considering they were _love letters_.


	2. It Comes Back (And Haunts Me)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> You spent most weekends with Spencer, either at work or getting distracted from your own book as the genius sped through War and Peace in two days. There were also the days you were at JJ's new apartment, helping to set up for the baby just like the rest of the BAU - you all desperately needed something to remind you why you stared into the abyss.
> 
> So, when you still had to stare Spencer down until he accepted help facing memories he forced himself to forget as a child, you kind of wanted to slap him over the head.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, part two, and it’s over 4,000 words long. Glad I broke this up into pieces.

# Like I've Never Been Hurt

### It Comes Back (And Haunts Me)

 

“I dunno, yellow’s a bit… _bright_ , don’t you think?” you asked as you looked over the colors again, grimacing as you recalled your room before it was _finally_ repainted when you were thirteen, “I had a yellow room as a kid and it haunts my nightmares.”

You didn’t exactly have many friends outside the team, you had three if you counted that guy at the bookstore along with Kevin, and Will, but you were a very _quality over quantity_ kind of person when it came to the people you spent your time with.  You’d learned that the hard way.  Beyond that, JJ could always count on you to be honest, you were never brutal about it, but you were honest.  The entire team would help out with baby stuff, just a few weeks ago Morgan and Will had spent hours trying to make sense of the directions to put the damn crib together while JJ went clothes shopping with Prentiss and Garcia, but they had more people in their lives than you and Spencer.

“So, the room can’t be blue, pink, yellow, green, or white,” JJ listed off as she looked over the other paint swatches Will had picked up at the store as she sat in the rocking chair she and Will had picked out a few days earlier.

“Red would likely be a bad choice too, it’s been known to trigger strong emotions, ranging from love to anger, it could be overwhelming,” Spencer added to the _no list._   Considering there were no colors that had passed onto a _yes_ list…this wasn’t going great.  It was a complicated balance, trying to find a color that made both the parents and the unborn baby comfortable, and you were quickly running out of options.

“What about a softer red?” Will suggested, gently pointing out that there really weren’t any other colors left.

“Softer, maybe a bit paler – “

JJ cut you off, gently, by adding, “But what’s the line between red and pink?”

You hummed in agreement as you nodded, looking around the room once again.

“What if we waited until the rest of the furniture was picked out, and then matched the color to the furniture?” JJ thought aloud.  When this whole thing started, she wanted to paint the room first to avoid the hassle, but that crib and the rocking chair had been absolutely perfect, and she didn’t want to pass them up.

Give it a few hours, the four of you would be right back there.

 

\-------------------------------------------------

 

Cases involving child victims were always hard, no matter who you were.  To make matters worse, Spence was having a reoccurring dream that wouldn’t let him sleep.  The two of you were used to long nights, going to sleep long after everyone else as you made sense of the details and the puzzle pieces, reaching into the deepest parts of the unsub’s mind.  This time was…it was different.  Spencer wasn’t just _tired_ , he was _distracted._   His mind wasn’t in the game, there was some kind of outside stressor driving him crazy as he tried to make sense of something else.  You were concerned when he had that dream on the jet, but the dream was… _evolving._

Despite what everyone liked to thing, human psychology wasn’t a black and white science.  Sometimes the human mind is able to overpower the body, sometimes hypnotism does work, sometimes kids from good homes become killers, and sometimes kids from bad homes become the heroes.  Only so much of a personality can be defined by nature, by the brain chemistry inherited from biological parents, and only so much can be deciphered from nurture, from the child’s upbringing.  There’s no _guarantee_ , and as the intelligence quotient gets higher and higher, predicting what was going to happen – what was _possible –_ became that much harder.  You didn’t think it was possible to _predict the future_ , or even believe in any psychic nonsense, but…

Repressed memories only remain repressed for so long, and there was a wide range of things that could act as a trigger.  This missing child case being located in Spencer’s home town was only part of it, the case involved children which was likely another part…

“So, you’re really sticking around?” Emily asked, teasingly, as the two of you drank at the bar.

“Yeah, Spence is going to stay and try to figure out these dreams he’s been having and it’s not something he should be doing alone,” you explained as you finished your drink, ordering another as you prepared yourself for what was going to be an even longer few days than the last.  You’d managed to save the boy and arrest a severely emotionally scarred woman for kidnapping and murder, all while Spencer was willing to bank on dream analysis – something he didn’t believe in – to try and figure out what his dreams meant.  He knew every psychology textbook inside and out, and he still pulled you aside to ask your opinion as the _actual_ psychologist on the team.  Morgan had even kept you updated on any developments that happened while you weren’t there, after you started to actually open up you and the only other doctor on the team had become nearly inseparable.

You were more than just worried.

“You think we should all stay?”  The offer was made of honest kindness and concern.  Everyone was concerned, but everyone hovering over him would only make things worse.

“No, if we all stay then he’ll grow resistant.  He doesn’t like it when everyone is worried about him, it comes from taking care of his mother for so many years and this is a private matter, he doesn’t even like talking about his dreams outside of a clinical perspective unless we –“ you stopped when you saw the grin on Emily’s face, like the cat that swallowed the canary, and you couldn’t quite figure out just what she was grinning about, “What’s that look for?”

“Either you’ve been breaking the _no profiling the team_ rule, or you got to know him _really well.”_

“To my defense, Morgan and Elle talked him into profiling me when I first joined and I kind of don’t blame them.  You know what it’s like for kids like me, if we manage to get out without breaking down we have to…remember what it’s like to be ourselves,” you explained, also excusing all guilty parties from breaking the number one rule of the BAU, “I was so focused on getting my degree that I didn’t have time for fun, then it was off to Quantico, and that was the first time I had time to actually figure things out.  I was a little… _distant_.”

“A little?”

You rolled your eyes as you put your drink back down.  Emily had a point, you might not have been best friends, but you had known each other when you were stuck in your own childhoods.  You had your own ways of dealing with it.  She actively rebelled, you’d seen that high school photo, but you just shut down.  You suffered from two different kinds of childhood, she was mostly left alone when she wasn’t actively being rejected by religion while you were criticized and forced to play a part and lie about who you were while your parents just… _left you alone_ until it was time to be seen in public.

“Right, because you were all hugs and sunshine when you first started in the BAU.”

You had her there.

“If we’re going to be talking about childhood scars, we’re going to need more shots.”

You waved down the bartender and requested a very simple order, “Two shot glasses, some limes, salt, and that bottle of tequila.”

 

\-----------------------------------------------------

 

“Just promise you won’t have that baby until I get back, alright?” you teased as you hugged JJ farewell.  You’d already decided to stay, and JJ only had a few more weeks until her son was born.  You’d spent most of your time with either JJ or Spencer over the past few years, and the chances of that changing were slim to none.  She wasn’t the least bit surprised you were sticking around, especially after Spencer announced he was going to be taking the next few days off.

“I promise, you take care of yourself, _and_ the guys?”  It was a teasing request.  Everyone on the team had their reckless moments, but these three were the _worst_.  Morgan would dash off into danger without a second thought, Rossi would antagonize an unsub without warning, and Reid would just take off without telling anyone where he was going or what he was doing.

You appreciated Morgan and Rossi staying behind as well, it was gonna be a few hours until you completely recovered from your hangover.  Your headache was gone, and you didn’t curse the sun’s existence anymore.  You just needed some sleep, and you weren’t going to argue when they decided to break into Reid’s room.  There was a bed in there, you’d just nap until _Young and the Restless_ was on, then binge on the show Rossi had gotten you hooked on years ago.

You pulled up one of the chairs tucked in the corner, your black ankle-high boots and old black leather jacket still lying next to the bed after you woke up from your nap.  You crossed your legs in the seat, sitting right behind the end table between Morgan and Rossi, grateful you’d thought to pack your tight black dress pants.  The fit was closer to skinny jeans, but the fabric and style was nice enough you could get away with it for work, and your blue cotton button-up was mostly to stave off the desert heat as it was loose enough to allow at least a little bit of a breeze.

It always amazed you how quickly you got used to having your gun strapped to your waist.  It was more of a physical thing, like riding a bike, but you had to sit just a little differently, move just a little differently, when it was there.  You weren’t stupid enough to sleep with it on, but you did reattach the holster to your black belt when you got back up.

Your eyes were on the screen, you hated how much you loved this shitty tv show, your matte-red painted lips pursed as you watched the tense argument.  If he were to completely ignore the fact that you, Morgan, and Rossi had _broken into his hotel room_ and then _left the door open_ , Spencer would have been forcing himself to push aside thoughts surrounding how… _adorable_ you looked.  You had taken to favoring side-braids over those neat and pristine buns you used to wear all the time, and each one got looser and almost _messier_ than the last, a few strands fell loose on your right side while the braid fell down the left, and your makeup was much softer tones and shades instead of the sharper colors and styles you used to wear.  Then there was the way you were absolutely _entranced_ by what had to be one of the _worst shows on the planet_.

You were his best friend, his partner on the job despite the fact the BAU didn’t exactly function that way, and one of very few people – total – who actually understood what it was like being the smartest person in the room in the 21st Century.  To be the outcast and want nothing more than to _get the hell out_ , to realize fitting in wasn’t an option, that escape was the only way to _survive_.  He couldn’t risk losing that, not after it had taken so long just to get you to open up – _over a year_ before you agreed to join the rest of the team for dinner after solving a case – and he didn’t want to wreck that.  Actually acting on these budding feelings…it was just a bad idea all around.

“What are you guys doing here?”  Spencer already knew, but if he was going to have a chance to convince the three of you to go back to D.C., even though he was _holding a box with Riley Jenkins’ name on it_ , he had to play like he had no idea.

“Hey, what’s it look like we’re doing.”  Morgan’s response wasn’t really a question, more like calling Spencer out and taking a shortcut through all the small talk before you actually got to the point.  Years of chasing down the worst killers – most of which started out as normal people before they suffered a break in their psyche – and seeing the worst crimes put the team past the point of small talk.

“Breaking into my room and watching _Days of our Lives?”_   He was mostly guessing on the name of the show.  There were a few things Spencer didn’t know, and soap operas were a _big_ gap in his wealth of knowledge.

“ _Young and the Restless,”_ you corrected simply, unscrewing the cap on your water bottle and taking a sip.  Looks like you’d completely recovered from that hangover, it was pretty clear you and Prentiss were close to death that morning.  It wasn’t odd for you to go out drinking with the other girls, but you never got so drunk you got _hungover_ before.

“Aren’t you supposed to be on a plane back to D.C.?”

“You’re supposed to be hanging out with your mom.”  Rossi was right, and clearly not letting Spencer get away with his attempt to get the team to believe he was staying to spend time with his mom. 

“And you’re _not,”_ Morgan emphasized the point, just to get through the genius’ stubborn head.  There was no talking the three of you out of helping him figure this out.

Despite Spencer’s instinct to handle it all alone, to take care of everything alone, he couldn’t help but feel… _relieved._

Didn’t mean he wasn’t going to keep trying to get the three of you back to D.C.

“So,” you got up as the show cut to a commercial break, making your way over to the box Spencer had set down on a stool surrounding the high-top table before flipping the lid off and reaching inside to grab a file, “The local police department just labels _all_ their files Riley Jenkins?”

He knew he was busted the _second_ you stood up.  It was a valiant effort, but clearly it was over.

“C’mon man, we all know what this has been doing to you, let us help.”  Morgan was more pleading at this point.  It had been hard enough convincing the other three to take off for D.C., but you were right.  If everyone stayed behind then Spencer would be that much more reluctant to accept help.  At least this way there was _somebody_ to help him.

“If we work together, we could help you find out who killed this kid.”  A logical plea, a good move on Rossi’s part.  You were already busy pointing out the fact there was no use in trying to lie, Morgan was appealing to Spencer’s emotions, all that was left was pointing out that accepting help was the _logical_ solution.  There was just one twist you didn’t see coming.

“I think I already know…”  You didn’t like the tone Spencer had taken on, too pensive considering it was something he _knew_.  He was never that pensive when he had a working theory.  It could be because it was something he saw in the dream but…

You placed a hand on his arm, looking up at him, your brow furrowed in concern, and asked, “What’s wrong, Spence?”

“I think it’s my father…”

Yeah, that was about as bad as it could be.

 

\--------------------------------------

 

Riley Jenkins was six years old when he was found in his basement, stabbed nine times with his mouth taped shut.  His father was supposed to pick him up from little league, but never did.  It was safe to say that the unsub was a white male, would have been in his thirties around the time of the crime meaning he was in his fifties, and due to the sexual nature of the crime it was clear the four of you were looking for a pedophile.  To top things off, Spencer couldn’t remember _anything_ about his father, like any memories he used to have were erased.

For the moment, while you focused on trying to track down his father and Rossi and Morgan tracked down Riley Jenkins’ family, all Spencer could to was try and get some answers out of his mother.  You didn’t need to tell him it could be difficult, the situation was already delicate and it wasn’t a secret that Diana Reid was already in a delicate psychological state.

Add in the fact that, once you tracked him down, Mr. Jenkins was actively fighting the idea of William Reid being anything but a good man…this was getting more and more complicated by the second.  All you could hope to do was track down the illusive William Reid in hopes of finding actual answers.

At the very least, you’d be able to get a beat off of his behavior towards the questions, maybe that would tell you whether or not you were looking in the right direction.  The fact that Jenkins _knew_ William Reid was about ten minutes away from his son the entire time didn’t help.  Spencer was doubtless going to be angry, but it wasn’t clear _how_ angry until he froze up at the law firm.  He took off for the bathroom to collect himself.

“17 years is a long time to go between visits,” Rossi pointed out, keeping his voice down even though Spencer had already taken off down the hall.

“Doesn’t look like it’s been long enough, he’s still angry,” Morgan added, just as concerned as you and Rossi.

“It’s not just that he’s angry, he’s confused.  That’s something that’s…new to Spencer, especially when it surrounds a case.  Put him in a social situation or reference something from popular media or culture, and he’s prepared to be baffled.  Something about his own history, his own life, is…uncomfortable.  Add in the fact that he _just_ found out his father was ten minutes away and never once bothered to _call?_ ” you pointed out, listing off the things that could set Spencer off, cause him to act so out of the norm, “I’m only surprised it took this long for it all to sink in and put him on edge.”

“You’re thinking it would be better to finish this up before he gets back?”  Morgan had worked with you enough to know when you were gently suggesting something other team members wouldn’t like.  This was definitely something Spencer wouldn’t like, but Morgan would be remiss to ignore the fact you were normally right about these things.  The study of human behavior was _literally_ your specialty, with the added training and experience as a profiler under your belt it was ignorant to assume you didn’t know what you were talking about.

“I can’t say that for sure, but – “

“You with the FBI?” William Reid asked as he stepped out of his meeting to speak with the three of you, completely unaware of why you were there.

“Yes, I’m Agent Rossi, this is Agent Morgan and Dr. [L/N].”  It was a routine introduction, nothing out of the ordinary quite yet.

“This about the city council investigation?”

“No,” you answered gently, trying to keep things as unconfrontational as possible until you got to the messy bits, “We’re here to talk about Spencer and – “

“Did something happen?”  He was immediately on edge, concerned.  Despite the absence, he still felt at least _some_ paternal responsibility, and he still cared.  His absence was likely triggered by something else, he didn’t _want_ to leave as much as he _had_ to leave.

“That’s what we’re trying to find out,” Spencer answered the question himself, distant, calm, almost quiet.  You had a right to be concerned about questioning William Reid with Spencer around.  There were a few ways this could go, and most of them were at least some level of _bad._ Even that short _hello dad_ was…cryptic.

At least Mr. Reid was aware of the fact this wasn’t a conversation for the lobby and took the four of you back to his office.  Spencer positioned himself as close to the door as possible, prepared to make a quick exit at any moment.  It didn’t take a PhD in Behavioral Psychology or even training as a profiler to tell Spencer was just barely keeping himself from completely snapping, every muscle, even his jaw, tense as he stood by the doorway with his hands in his pockets.  You took the seat nearest to Spencer, if anyone was going to chase after him if he stormed out it would _have_ to be you while Rossi and Morgan finished up with any remaining questions.  Rossi was sitting next to you on that same couch, but Morgan couldn’t quite bring himself to be comfortable in a chair and chose to lean back against the wooden counter below the bookshelves lining an entire wall.  You had the man completely surrounded, save for the outer wall.

You couldn’t quite tell if that was intentional or deliberate.  FBI training said to do something much like this when you were in the suspect’s comfort zone, but a behavioral analysis could easily point out this was part of a _pack mentality_ , something that wasn’t unheard of when teams like the BAU formed.  Three of you were actively protecting a wounded member of your pack, whether he was able to protect himself or not, and wanted the man that caused that harm to remain on edge and uncomfortable, even if it was the only thing you could do.

Apparently, being socially awkward was a genetic trait, as Mr. Reid said the _worst_ thing he could have possibly said, “You don’t look like me anymore.  You used to look just like me, everyone said so.”

“They say some people look like their dogs, too,” Spencer replied, remaining calm and calculated, and nobody had time to cut in before he made a particularly harsh jab at his father, “It’s attributed to prolonged mutual exposure.  Elderly couples, also.  They unconsciously mimic the expressions of people they’ve been around their whole life.  So, it kind of – kind of makes sense that I wouldn’t look like you.  I haven’t seen you in 20 years.”

Save for a few words here and there, and that last bit, he was word-for-word reciting the opening of your dissertation.  It was entirely on _learned behavior_ and the abilities humans have to mimic, especially as a way of learning how to behave both physically and emotionally.  That wasn’t all it was about, the damn thing was almost 200 pages, but that was the basic topic.

Probably not the best time to bring that up.  You’d save that little nugget for when you were in private, tease him about it until you got him to crack a smile and hopefully cheer him up a bit.

The uncomfortable change in subjects was about what you’d expect, Mr. Reid asking, “So, you in town on work?”

Rossi came to the rescue, as had become his habit when it came to the rest of the team, by responding, “We’re just wrapping up a case.”

“A five-year-old boy was abducted and murdered,” Morgan gave the basic details, standing upright.  He stopped leaning against that counter once it became clear just how uncomfortable Spencer was.  No matter how much he teased the younger agent, Derek Morgan would always look at Spencer as his little brother.  Luckily, you and Rossi had managed to remain calm.  Granted, you were sitting on the edge of the couch, but you managed to look casual as you remained prepared to dash out the room if Spencer stormed out.

You used to be so good at playing the human-interaction equivalent of poker, then you started rediscovering who you are and caring about your team, especially your fellow doctor, and it was becoming harder when one of them was upset or uncomfortable.  It wasn’t exactly easy in the first place, but now…

_Dammit._

“I heard about that, uh,” William took a moment to recall the name of the first victim, but he did remember, “Ethan Hayes, right?  That’s terrible.”

“It got me thinking about Riley Jenkins, you remember Riley Jenkins?”

You wanted to say something, desperately, but you couldn’t.  For starters, Spencer’s question was the entire reason you were there.  Second, Spencer had already told you he was counting on you to keep an eye on his father’s physical behavior and mannerisms.  You knew more about behavioral psychology than the rest of the team, and he desperately needed you to help him make sense of it all.  His own social ineptitude could allow him to remain entirely clinical about the subject, but you’d managed to mix it with your own social experiences in a way he still didn’t know if he could or not.  That was the entire reason the two of you were approached about co-writing that paper.  Your own life experiences, your own need to study people just to survive your own childhood, had given you a lifetime of experience most psychologists never have.  To top things off, Spencer couldn’t count on himself to remain objective, not with this, and he knew that, and he trusted you to do that for him.

One thing was certain, William Reid knew something about Riley Jenkins’ murder.

“I’m not saying he did it, I’m just saying he definitely knows something,” you further explained as Morgan drove the four of you back to the hotel, “He clearly remembers Riley Jenkins, the way he said _‘of course’_ he remembers indicates some level of remorse, but then he tensed up and defended himself when we indicated he was involved.  The way Riley was killed and just left there doesn’t indicate there would be much remorse, he was just left there behind the washer and dryer, the killer didn’t care what happened to him as long as he didn’t talk, didn’t even care if he was _found_ based on the fact Riley was left in the basement of his own home.  Mr. Reid completely contradicts that, but his immediate need to close up…it’s definitely suspicious.”

“If he didn’t do it, then who did?” Spencer huffed, more frustrated at the lack of answers than anything else.  Facing his father didn’t exactly help his mood either, and now things were even more confused than they were before.

“Call Garcia, maybe she’ll be able to get something off his computer or emails,” Morgan suggested as he pulled into the parking garage for the hotel you were staying at.  It had already been a long day, and the four of you were desperately in need of some rest, none more than Spencer.  Though, you feared he wouldn’t be sleeping until the whole case was solved.

 

\----------------------------------------

 

“Hey gorgeous, get any sleep last night?” Morgan greeted when he caught up to you at the breakfast buffet, grabbing a muffin and some fresh coffee.  It had taken time for him to come up with a nickname for you, endearing nicknames were just his thing, but he had eventually come up with one for you.

“Not really,” you admitted as you snapped the lid on your paper coffee cup into place after mixing in some creamer, “Mostly worried about Spence.  Either way, the answers he gets are going to wreck his whole world view.  I’ve been there, and it…changes you in unpredictable ways.”

“You spend a _lot_ of your time worried about him, you do realize that, right?”  He’d been watching you open up, then swiftly connect with Spencer before becoming nearly inseparable from the team genius.  You weren’t exactly average, but there had to be _something_ there.

“Is now really the time or place to be having that discussion?” you countered, looking at the taller agent over your glasses, you were just too tired to deal with your contacts that morning, before turning to make your way to a table by the window.

“I just wanted to make sure you knew,” he chuckled, snapping the lid on his own coffee cup as he followed to join you, sitting across from you and giving you that brotherly look he’d give _everyone_ on the team when he really meant what he said, “Seriously, I know it’s hard for you to open up – “

“Could that have something to do with the fact you, Elle, and Spence profiled me.”  You poorly hid your smirk behind your coffee cup before you took a sip.  That was just how your friendship was, constantly teasing each other like a pair of siblings.  It was a comforting relationship, one you wished had been possible with your own brother, but even without your parents’ interference he would have ended up just like them.  There was no avoiding that now, but you’d made your way and found your own family.

You were recovering from your own life-long traumas, finding yourself, even if it was in the most unorthodox place possible.

“Yeah, that’s fair,” his smile and chuckle never faltered despite being called out on breaking the number one rule of the BAU, “But you opened up, you let us get to know you, you stopped shutting down as often, and even when you do shut down we know it’s cause you’re too focused on getting us all out alive to…bother with your own feelings.  I’m proud of you for that.”

You opened your mouth to respond, but your phone started buzzing in your pocket.  You dug it out, putting it on speaker when you saw the caller ID.

“Hey, I got Morgan here with me.”

_“Good, get Rossi and meet me in the lobby.  Someone left a file in my room last night.”_

You shared a concerned look with Morgan, someone leaving files in hotel rooms was never a good sign, and agreed, “We’ll be right there.”

You hung up and slipped your phone into your back pocket before practically chugging the rest of your coffee, grimacing as you tossed the paper cup into the trash and commented, “Even compared to the bureau coffee that’s bad.”

Morgan laughed at your misery, taking his last few drinks before tossing his cup.  Sure, it was bad, but the face you made looked like you’d just bit into a whole lemon.

The four of you gathered in the hotel lobby, looking over the file as you gathered what little details Spencer had.  He’d obviously memorized the file, he was supposed to be getting sleep so _of course_ he’d be memorizing that file, but you’d deal with that later.  You stood in the lobby with your hands tucked in the back pockets of your dark skinny jeans, looking over the file as Rossi flipped through the pages.

“Someone slipped this under your door?” you weren’t so much asking as confirming your fears, your brow furrowed and lips just lightly parted in the way they always did just before you anxiously bit your bottom lip as you looked back up at Spencer.  It was amazing you could go an entire day without completely ruining your lipstick.  It brought to mind the question of just what _could_ smudge –

_No.  No.  No._

That was _not_ a good sign.  It was…but it wasn’t.  It was one thing to be sexually attracted or aroused by someone or something, but Spencer had learned that having thoughts like _that_ about someone meant his feelings for someone were crossing the line between platonic and romantic.  There was no _official_ rule against dating within the bureau, after Rossi it was _frowned upon_ and _highly discouraged_ though never against the rules, but you’d said yourself that you thought it was a bad idea.  _Especially_ for people working within the same unit.  Neither of you were going to quit your jobs any time soon, or even transfer to a different unit, so it was just… _safer_ to try and burry these feelings until they died.

Assuming that _worked_ anyway…

He knew this was coming.  The second he saw you listening to every rambling word when you went to the museum together, he knew it was just a matter of time.

“They know where your room is,” Rossi pointed out to Spencer as he flipped through the file.  The file was an arrest record of a known pedophile, one who lived in the neighborhood Spencer grew up in.  That fact was concerning in and of itself, completely ignoring the fact that it looked like someone was trying to cover something up.

“I do have to admit, the timing of this is a little suspicious.”  That was Morgan’s nature, always on edge and always looking for the _but_ when it came to cases.  You couldn’t blame him, you were that way in your _personal life_ , and he was right.  The timing was just… _odd_.  The only people who even knew Spencer was looking into the case were his mother, his father, Mr. Jenkins, and a local detective that Spencer told he was looking into Riley Jenkins’ murder as _research._

“You think you knew this man?” Rossi asked, looking up from the file as he voiced the million-dollar question.  Spencer could only answer with a rambling _‘yeah, no, I don’t know’_ type of answer.

“We’ve been over this, _I don’t know_ is a perfectly acceptable answer,” you gently coached, looking up to Spencer.

“Looks like he was arrested for exposing himself to a minor,” Rossi read over the complete report, bringing up the one thing that was most important in the entire file.

“Precursor to molestation, and murder.  We should definitely look at this guy,” Morgan agreed as he reached for his ringing cell.  Things had been looking up, Garcia was always known for finding something, but not this time.  The only significant things on William Reid were his purchase of Celine Dion tickets a few months ago, a sick cat, and saving everything that had to do with his son.

That only served to make things worse, as Spencer swiftly stepped outside to get some air.  You stuck around, letting him get some air, as you, Morgan, and Rossi asked about looking up Gary Brendan Michaels.  It took a bit to find Spencer, but when you did he was completely clueless to the fact a prostitute was coming onto him, and it looked like he was cheating at a video poker game.  You couldn’t even be surprised anymore, just amused as you told the woman to _find her business with literally anyone else_ and tugged Spencer away.  The fact that he just left the game, along with his $2,000 in winnings, for the woman was the most amusing part for Rossi and Morgan, but you were too focused on the fact that Spencer seemed to be in a bit of a daze.  Maybe _daze_ was the wrong word, but when something _clicked_ in that big brain of his he always seemed a bit…spacey.  He said something about _quitting smoking_ and then just…took off.

“An explanation might be nice once in a while!” you called after Spencer just before you chased after him.  You were normally able to keep up with him, but when he got like this it was like trying to figure out the movie _Devour,_ it just wasn’t possible.  Watching the scene, Morgan couldn’t help himself as he looked over at Rossi.

“I don’t get how you can watch those damn soap operas when we’re living in one.”

“Until someone dies and comes back to life, this isn’t a soap opera,” Rossi answered simply, further explaining, “This is a romantic comedy that’s way too long and keeps trying to be edgy.”

Yeah…the old man had a point there…

 

\-----------------------------------------

 

Hypnotism.  Spencer’s grand epiphany was _hypnotism_ , and he wanted you to _go see the hypnotherapist with him_.  Completely ignoring the fact that you _didn’t believe in hypnotism_ , you weren’t sure about this idea.  Hell, _nobody_ was sure of this idea, save for _Spencer._   Still, it was his decision in the end, so all you could do was sit back and wait, or in your case sit back and _watch._

It was bold of the therapist to assume you’d let her kick you out, the entire reason you were there was because Spencer _wanted_ you there.  You weren’t about to _leave,_ not because she said she didn’t _normally_ allow someone to sit in on the session.

Assuming hypnotism _would_ work on Spencer, as the chances of it working on _anyone_ were varied, the fact that he had an eidetic memory was problematic.  Anything recalled through the hypnotherapy would be _terrifyingly_ vivid, as he would be almost completely immersed in the memory.  It was a dangerous risk, and you found that out the hard way.  He was so immersed in the latest memory it was difficult to pull him completely out of it, and even for a few seconds afterwards he was skittish and on edge.  He almost couldn’t remember exactly where he was for a few moments, that look in his eyes was the same one you’d seen in the eyes of every terrified boy you’d saved during your tenure at the BAU.

You knelt by the couch he was lying on and held him as he buried his face into your shoulder, inhaling the mixt sent of the shampoo on your side-braided hair – the same beach scented shampoo you always used – mixed with your perfume – a mixture of clean rain and the beach – and the unscented detergent that lingered on your soft white cotton button-up.  It took a few moments, running your hand through his hair seemed to help, but he eventually calmed down enough to tell you where you needed to go next.  You wanted to follow, at least as far as you could, but it seemed Morgan and Rossi had already discussed what to do about that.

“Come on, kiddo,” Rossi gently pulled you away to go get some coffee and lunch, “You gotta take a break.”

Reid would be alright without you for a little bit, but if you were exhausted when things got _really_ bad…

 

\--------------------------------------------

 

Of all the members of the BAU, you always thought you’d be the first one to bring their own father into custody.  That was something you’d keep to yourself, especially after the CODIS on Gary Michael’s DNA came back a match for a _murder victim_ across state lines.  The hardest part of it all was explaining just why this was so hard on Spencer.  It wasn’t just about his father, it was something more complicated, something much harder to explain to Morgan, or even Rossi.

The smarter you are, the harder it is to deal with something you _don’t know_.  That only gets worse when it’s something about yourself, your own past, something you _should know_ , something you _already_ know, but just _can’t remember_ no matter how hard you try.  Most people are okay with that, most people can just live with it, but Spencer just wouldn’t be able to.  He needs answers, at all times, and for just about everything.  There was no stopping him, no matter what the answers _could_ or _would_ be.  The best any of you could do was be there for him.

You had stepped away from watching the interrogation on the other side of the one-sided glass for just a moment, getting a bottle of water from a vending machine, when you saw _both_ of Spencer’s parents.  You hadn’t seen Diana since Spencer had her flown to D.C. during the whole _Fisher King_ fiasco, and you hadn’t expected William Reid to actively track any of you down after he had been taken into custody.  You quickly made your way over to them, stepping into their conversation with the detective and cutting in.  It wasn’t his case anymore, the whole thing involved a body buried across state lines, it was a federal matter.

On top of everything, based on the look on her face, Diana _immediately_ recognized you.  You weren’t the only one she recognized, but out of everyone you had the best chance at getting through to her son at that very moment.

“What’s going on?”  You felt your blood run cold before she even explained.

The short version?  Gary Michaels had his sights set on Spencer just after Riley was killed, and Diana was the one to tell Lou Jenkins about it.  Then, after the murder, William helped cover it up.

Was there a member of the BAU that _didn’t_ have a complicated childhood?  Or was that just a prerequisite to even be allowed on the team.

You cursed under your breath, waving for them to follow as you rushed towards the interrogation room, opening the door and interrupting loud and sharp enough to snap Spencer out of his own determination, “ _Reid_.”

He snapped his attention to you, still leaning against the metal table Lou Jenkins was handcuffed to, and waited for an explanation.  You wouldn’t interrupt for anything but a good reason, at least that’s what he thought.

“I have a witness that knows the full story, you’re gonna’ want to talk to her alone.”  Luckily, that was all it took.  Any other case, and Spencer would have been highly skeptical, asking questions or at least preparing for something else once that door closed behind him.  Instead, he just stepped outside and saw his mother and father, his own blood running cold as the implications of what you said mixed with the reality in front of him.

Even at that moment, as they spoke privately, he never regretted making this decision.  He had the truth, even if it meant he was wrong the entire time.  He could finally make his peace, and those dreams would finally stop.  For the first time in over a week, he could _finally_ get some _real_ sleep, which was exactly what he did on the plane ride back.  You weren’t about to ask what Hotch had done to send the plane back for the rest of you, you didn’t want to be held responsible for whatever murder he committed to pull off that magic trick, and honestly you were a little distracted by the group text Garcia sent out.

_Baby Henry is finally here!!!!_

You should have known that would happen.


	3. My Heart's On The Front Line

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Just when you think a disemboweled victim would be the worst part of the case, you spend an entire case being reminded of exactly why you had a very specific type.

# Like I've Never Been Hurt

### My Heart's On The Front Line

 

It was rare to see you with your hair down, literally, but Spencer was one of the few lucky enough to see it.  Granted, that was normally on the rare free weekend when you hung out at your apartment together, but that by itself was special enough.  It was another remaining effect of living in your family’s shadow for so long that had taken time to go away.  You were beautiful either way, but he loved seeing you with your hair down.  You looked so much freer, comfortable.  You’d already been out a few times that day, mostly to pick up food and your mail, but otherwise the two of you were just watching crap television at your place.

“The hell do you do you mean?” your words were accusatory, but that grin and giggle in your voice said otherwise, despite the couple popcorn kernels you’d tossed at Spencer.  You had your legs crossed over his lap as you sat against the armrest of your small couch, it was a bit of a squeeze to fit three people, and you’d talked him into actually watching an episode of _Young and the Restless._

“The writing is completely asinine, people come back from the dead for no reason, everyone is either related or is from a set of identical triplets, and practically everyone’s been married to each other at one point or another,” Spencer defended his point of view after batting away your, very, poorly aimed popcorn.  It really was a bad show, a _really_ bad show, and just because your love of it was adorable didn’t mean he was going to even _like_ it any time soon.

“That’s why it’s _amazing,”_ you laughed, your smiles and grins were _contagious_ , “You gotta’ take enjoyment in the simple things, my friend.  It doesn’t have to be all Leo Tolstoy all the time.  Sometimes a TV show is just a TV show, a flower is just a flower, and a painting is just a painting.”

“And sometimes a _bad_ TV show is just _bad.”_

“Right, and your _jokes_ are pure gold.”  Sure, they’d be amusing in the academic circles, but outside a lecture for a room full of PhD’s?  They were _horrible._

That was a shot Spencer hadn’t entirely expected, for one particular reason, “You laugh at them, though.”

“I laugh _because_ they’re bad, that’s like my favorite thing about you.”

Of all the things that could have been your favorite thing about him, it was bad jokes that stemmed from a _lifetime_ of being socially awkward.  Of _all_ the things…he couldn’t tell if that was good or bad, most people would look at that as a fault – he sure as hell did – but there you were, loving that about him.

Right at that moment, there was nothing he wanted more than to kiss you, but…he didn’t.  Instead, he just challenged you to tell him a _good_ joke and burst into laughter when you sassily replied with, “Fine, knock-knock.”

 

\---------------------------------------------

 

The fact that the victims were disemboweled before their throats were slit had nothing to do with the fact this was the worst case you’d ever been on.  Even the fact that the unsub hopped from killing prostitutes to killing socialites after a year-long vacation.  Didn’t even have to do with the fact that a victim was either thrown of jumped off the balcony of her apartment, completely breaking the M.O.  No, it had everything to do with _Viper_.

You were the smallest member of the team, almost comically big eyes, hair always in a side-braid, you looked sweet and easily approachable.  To be fair, Hotch brought you along because he knew that would make this _Viper_ act like he was in control, make him comfortable enough to at least give some of his act away.  When he led you and Morgan into Viper’s pick-up class and heard what the man was teaching…

Maybe it would have been safer to bring Prentiss instead of you.  This guy was a stereotypical misogynist with beliefs like, _men were put on this Earth to hunt women,_ _women want to be hunted,_ _women pitted men against each other to make sure they bring home the best male,_ and _women just want a guy that’ll make their eyes roll back in your head._   You barely kept from rolling your eyes _out_ of your head, though you did have to take a _very_ deep and exasperated breath as you heard it all.

You just wanted this guy to answer some questions, so you could leave, but the fact that he was _clearly_ interested in you wasn’t exactly helping.  You really hoped it was just because you were the only female in the room, because otherwise you were going to be sick for the next five years.  All you wanted were the names of his clients, but that was a no-go without a warrant, and now you were trying to figure out what club he was at during the night of the last murder.  That only got some vague flirting, if it could be called that, when Morgan stepped in.

You couldn’t help the snort when Viper claimed he outwitted _alpha males like Morgan for fun or profit._   First, you highly doubted that.  Second, Morgan worked with Dr. Spencer Reid every day.  It was just such a laughable retort you couldn’t help yourself.  Sure, you got the name of the club out of his little tantrum – _Club Aqua –_ but he also put you in a position where either you walked away or committed murder.

“Now you might not want to believe that my style works, and here in this harsh light, you have the advantage,” Viper’s attention was primarily on Hotch as he spoke, before turning to you with a perverse grin you wanted to wipe right off his face, “But meet me on my turf…the things I could make you do.”

You didn’t say anything, you kept a flat poker face, mostly because you were focusing on not _throwing up._   You vaguely registered Hotch giving Viper his card before leading you out of the gaudy classroom, Morgan staying behind and silently glaring at the so-called pick-up artist.

“Any chance we can arrest him for just being a creep?” you quietly asked Hotch, he was an attorney, as you made your way back to the car as Morgan finally turned around to catch up with the two of you.  Hotch’s next promise was practically music to your ears.

“We’re just getting started.”

 

\-------------------------------------------------------

 

It got worse.  It _actually_ got worse.  Between one of the unsub’s potential victims, who turned out to be a former prostitute who quite heroin _entirely_ because she was attacked by the unsub and Spencer having to read through Viper’s pickup lines because those were the same lines the unsub used – when he asked if those lines actually worked you could only reply with _‘sadly, yes’_ – you didn’t think it could get worse.

_Then. It. Did._

The worst part was, you couldn’t exactly say _no._   Rossi was right, you’d need to profile Viper and the best way to do that was with someone he’d see as a challenge.  As Spencer had so kindly put it, before poorly trying to hide his own amusement, it would have to be somebody Viper was already attracted to.  All eyes turned to you and you felt your blood stop as a weight settled in your stomach as it clicked, your face expressionless as you stared off in the direction of a desk standing between Rossi and Hotch as you admitted, “I’d rather you guys just killed me.”

Next thing you knew, you were standing at a table, alone, in Club Aqua.  Prentiss and Jordan were nearby, all three of you in dresses and shoes you’d recently purchased for the occasion, clubbing outfits never seemed to be something you thought of when you packed a go-bag.  The asymmetrical neckline of your blue dress was hardly low, but the knee-length dress did cling to you and your navy-blue heels would do the rest of the work.  From there it was a matter of the right hairstyle – a teased ponytail – and the right makeup – smoky eye and a soft pink instead of your usual matte red – to finish up the look.  The only perfume you had on hand was your usual, so you’d make do with it, and then it was off to profile Viper.

Rephrase, it was off to swallow your nausea and _flirt with_ Viper while you, Prentiss, and Jordan profiled the guy.  It wasn’t that you were bad at flirting, you just had a specific type, one you had a very simple way of explaining back when you were in college.  You’d hold your hand above your head, as if measuring something, and say, “Your IQ must be this high to ride this ride.”

Needless to say, Viper didn’t make the cut, but you did get some very important information.  Didn’t say anything about it either, you just shared looks with Prentiss and Jordan before leaving.

“The unsub knew Vanessa Holden,” Prentiss said as she held her phone between the three of you, keeping you on speaker with Hotch and Rossi on the other end.

 _“How do you know?”_   Hotch’s question was reasonable.

“It’s Viper’s first confidence building exercise,” Jordan answered simply, “He told us all about it.”

“Apparently the exercise is to track down the _queen bee_ – or _alpha female –_ that crushed you and take them down.  For the unsub, that was Vanessa Holden,” you clarified, cementing the fact that the unsub had to know Vanessa Holden, “Now that he’s taken her down, he’s gained more confidence.”

 _“It makes sense with what he said to Vanessa that night,”_ Rossi agreed as he recalled the interview with Vanessa’s sister, _“’Don’t you know who I am, look closer.’”_

_“He meant it literally.  We need to talk to the family again.”_

 

\---------------------------------------------

 

You had time to change back into your jeans and blouse, but your makeup and hair was going to have to wait.  At least you got some real information, something that was useful, despite the physical torment of being in the same room as Viper.

“Prentiss, when you asked if he practices on a sex doll, I almost lost it,” Jordan applauded as the three of you had a short and sweet celebration over your small victory before turning to you as she attached her gun holster to her belt, “And when you just yawned in his face.”

“What can I say?  I’m cerebrally stimulated,” you shrugged and grinned a little at your victory.  This whole case, the misogyny and the pickup lines, served as a good reminder of just _why_ you were so picky.  Granted, sapiosexuality wasn't exactly someone one _chose_ to be, but the exact details of your tastes were something you defined for yourself as you grew older.

“You know, as much as I hate what that guy stands for, I still read _Five Ways To Get A Guys Attention_ in Cosmo,” Prentiss admitted, focused on the buttons of her shirt despite the fact she didn’t actually need to see the buttons to do them.

“Because it makes sense,” Jordan consoled, wordlessly admitting she did the same.

“It’s how we’re built, we want to be noticed, and if somebody has tips on how to do that then we’re gonna’ buy a whole magazine for two pages of tips that are probably bogus anyway,” you agreed as you sat down to slip your ankle-high boots back on before shutting your locker for the night.  You’d retrieve what you left in there when the case was over.

“Hey…thanks for doing this.”  Jordan had expected to be sidelined when Hotch called her out on lying to the family.  Instead, she was able to go out with you and Prentiss on an undercover, even if it was very brief and technically not undercover.  That meant the two of you stood up for her, and that meant something.  The heartfelt moment was interrupted, however, as Hotch knocked on the door and called to the three of you that another victim was kidnapped.

 

\-------------------------------------------------

 

Rescues were never easy, your entrance had to be perfect, and how you dealt with the suspect had to be perfect or they’d hurt the victim.  There were times where things went smoothly, where the house had plenty of windows and a lot of visibility to allow the team the perfect entrance.  There were times when the suspect felt so comfortable in his surroundings that he didn’t feel the need to keep the victim as a shield.  Luckily, both of these events seemed to coincide into one phenomenally smooth rescue and a smooth arrest of Robert Parker – the unsub – after Morgan tackled him to the ground.

That didn’t help deal with the fact that Parker’s mother was the secondary trigger.  She was sick, fatally, and even with the dialysis pump it was only a matter of time.

 

\-----------------------------------------------

 

You just had enough time to get some sleep before your lecture at the Quantico Academy, leaving your desk empty for the day.  Good thing too, because Morgan decided it was time to have a little chat with Reid.  Things were looking good with that bartender in Atlanta, she’d even sent back Spencer’s card with a sexy little lip print from her lipstick on the back, but after hanging up on what would be their last call Spencer just looked at the card in thought before opening the bottom drawer of his desk and tossing the card in there.  Dr. Spencer Reid never used the bottom drawer of his desk for anything other than _miscellaneous storage_ , which was a nice way of saying _junk he’s probably never gonna use again._

Morgan bided his time, waited for Reid to make yet _another_ trip for coffee – the kid was addicted – before getting up and making his way to the break area for a quiet chat.

“Alright, what’s going on?  You had a surefire thing with that bartender from Atlanta and you’re passing it up,” Morgan immediately brought up the reason for his concern, “And don’t give me that long distance crap, we both know it can work out.  Worked out for JJ and Will.”

Reid was desperately trying to find an answer and absentmindedly looked towards your desk, as if to check if you were there even though he _knew_ you wouldn’t be, and that was all Morgan needed to know.

“[Y/N]?  I knew there was a little something there, I didn’t think it was that big.  You did a hell of a job at hiding it.”

“I had to, she’s a Behavioral Psychologist, a profiler, and my best friend,” Reid kept his voice down as he stirred the sugar into his coffee and remained focused on that, “If anyone could see right through the act, she could.”

“So, why not tell her?  There’s no rules against it, just a yearly warning about the risks of fraternization, and you’d be good together.”  He meant that.  It wasn’t like you were exactly alike, or that you were complete opposites.  It was a mix of both, a realistic match that involved some give and take.  Besides, didn’t everyone say the key to a happy relationship was being with your best friend?

“I don’t know…I guess I’d rather stay friends than risk saying something and losing that, and those seminars are right, inter-bureau relationships do – “

“Reid…if you’re not gonna go for it with [Y/N], then you’re gonna have to move on.”  It was advice Morgan didn’t like giving, but he couldn’t _force_ Reid to ask you out.  If anything, that would just make things worse, far more complicated than they needed to be.  If Reid was going to go for it, he needed to be ready.  This wasn’t just picking up a girl at the bar, this was asking a best friend – a best friend he worked with every day – to take a big risk that could change the dynamic of practically every aspect of your lives.

“I know I just gotta…figure out how to do that first.”

Morgan had a feeling that wasn’t going to work out.


	4. You Fought Through The Darkness...

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> You weren't entirely surprised your past had come back to haunt you. It's not like you kept it a secret. You just never talked about it, and everyone on the BAU never pushed. Who you are and what you do are what matter, not where you come from.
> 
> Now you were dropped into the deep end of a case that brought back just about everything, your only saving grace being your father and mother left Dallas when the killings started.

# Like I've Never Been Hurt

### You Fought Through The Darkness...

 

“Why does everyone automatically assume _cowgirl_ when they hear Texas?  Do I _sound_ like a cowgirl?” you griped angrily as you poured yourself a cup of coffee first thing in the morning, “Most people in Texas don’t have a cowboy hat or a hatred for anyone tanner than a sheet of paper, and frankly you can find people that do all over the country.”

“Alright, gorgeous, what happened?” Morgan asked with an amused smile, turning to lean back against the counter in the break room instead of going right back to his desk.  Emily and Spencer were in the break room too, looking up at you in shock from their seats at the break room table, but Derek had gotten to asking the question first.  Emily was just caught off guard by the way you angrily started bitching, it was a bit out of character for you, and Spencer was distracted by the fact your hair was simply in a low side ponytail draped over your left shoulder, a few strands still framing the right side of your face.  It was stupid, immature, something one would expect from a 13-year-old boy, but something about you simultaneously brought out the best parts of him, along with the dumber parts.

“I met a guy at the bookstore yesterday, and I figured if I was going to meet someone I could get along with anywhere it would be at the bookstore, so we went out for coffee,” you summed up the events that transpired before the whole experience went sour as you stirred creamer into your coffee, “He asked if I’m a local, I said I moved here from Texas about five years ago, and he said ‘ _so, you’re a cowgirl, do you have the hat and boots?’_   I just about became our next unsub.”

“ _Ugh!”_ Emily grimaced and let out a sound of disgust as the guys made their own expressions of disapproval, “If you killed him, we wouldn’t have blamed you.  We probably would have helped covered it up.”

“The worst part is, I let him take me out for coffee before I had a chance to track down that book I’ve been looking for.  Now I have to go back, and – get this – _he works there_.  Between my childhood, seeing the worst of humanity on a daily basis, and my dating life it’s like my life is an endless string of disasters.”  You turned to lean your hip against the counter and face the other three profilers as you tossed the small wooden stick you’d used to stir your coffee onto the counter before taking a sip of the warm liquid.  It wasn’t the best, no coffee served in any office ever was, but the stash of good creamer you kept in the fridge helped.

“I could go pick up the book for you, if you want,” Spencer offered without even thinking.  He would have offered even if he _had_ thought about it, but he just didn’t want you dealing with that sleaze again.  You immediately made your way over to Spencer, placing your personalized mug of coffee down before hugging your best friend from behind, pressing your cheek against his.  He vaguely caught you saying thank you, and something about him being the best, but it all went blank for a second when you kissed his cheek.  He hadn’t even realized you and Emily had made your way back to your own desks to actually get some work done.

“I see your plan to get over her is working out well.”

There was no good retort to that, even someone as brilliant and witty as Dr. Spencer Reid had _nothing_ , so all he did was briefly glare at the older agent before making his way back to his desk.  He wasn’t _in love_ with you, it hadn’t gotten that far.  It was just… _feelings_ , slightly more than platonic feelings.  He’d be able to readjust his view, change that love into a familial one, and move on…

_Right?_

\------------------------------------------------

 

“It’s not too late for you to go back home, we can manage without you.  Hell, I’ll just tell everyone you’re sick,” Rossi offered as you grabbed your things from the car and made your way to the jet.

“I appreciate the concern, but you and I both know they’re not prepared to deal with hellscape they’re about to be dealing with.  Eventually a face is going to be put onto this investigation, no matter how hard we try to keep my involvement a secret, and it’s better that we put my face on it than anyone else’s,” you reasoned as you pulled your suitcase out of the trunk, “It’ll give the victims’ families a reason to open up and the perfect antagonist for the unsub.”

“That’ll just turn her attention toward you – “

“And maybe get her to make a mistake.  Don’t get on your high horse like you’ve never antagonized an unsub yourself.”  You had a point, a good one.  That was almost literally the first thing he did on the first case he worked when he returned to the BAU.

“You do realize you know the victims’ families, probably know their kids?”

“The society of the upper class of Dallas is smaller than you think, I probably know the _unsub._ ”

That didn’t make Rossi feel any better.  The fact you were going back to Dallas, somewhere you swore you’d never return to, was already bad enough.  The fact you were hunting down an unsub that was likely a prostitute killing men like…well… _your father_ just made things worse.  You were going to be surrounded in that world, and the second you stepped back into it they’d _all_ recognize you.  At the very least, you weren’t being stupid or reckless about it.  You gave JJ as much of a heads up as you could but…it was _difficult_ to explain.

“I’ll do what I can to mitigate everything, but with what you’re saying…short of a mask or a bag over your head the local news is going to be all over it,” she sighed, keeping her voice down as you spoke quietly on the other side of the plane.  Everyone else was packing their bags in the cubbies as you took your own seats and you wanted…

You wanted to remain just _Dr. [Y/N] [L/N]_ for just a few more hours.  It didn’t seem like much to ask for, but there were demons in the world you were raised in.  It wasn’t just politics, business, or rich people being snobs.  Things got… _ugly_.

“Be prepared for an uphill battle.  It’s not just lawyers that we’ll have trouble getting information from, a lot of the families will be tight-lipped too, as well as any other call-girls she knows or works with.  She probably has a list of clients and only sees them, she can’t see too many or she’ll start having trouble keeping track of who likes what,” you openly explained what you _did_ know about high-priced call-girls that only catered to the rich and famous.  The fact that you were from a high-class family wasn’t exactly a secret, as much as you tried not to profile each other there were times it was just a natural instinct and the calculation would pop into your head before you could stop it.  The only problem was they had been on the outside looking into the world you were born and raised in.

This was their first time seeing the inner workings, and it was…it was enough to seriously fuck a kid up to be raised in it.

Fucked up enough that you wouldn’t be surprised if you knew the unsub.

Either way, the original plan was to keep you out of the eyes of the public whenever possible.  You were fairly strictly off of field duty and remained in the office space the team was given to work on the case.  It wasn’t hard to explain that away, there had been cases where you only left the local police station to go get a shower and change of clothes at your hotel room.  If anyone saw you, especially with that gun on your belt talking with known FBI agents and driving around in an FBI suburban, it wouldn’t be hard to guess just what you were doing in town.  Everyone would know there was some kind of case, and then the media would start _really_ digging for the best story.

A shame it was only a matter of time.  There were already photographs, the news was always out for the next big story and some of them had tight connections with law enforcement.  You weren’t the least bit surprised when your reappearance in Dallas was featured in the _socialite_ section of local news websites, every article linking you with the FBI.

This was going to be an obstacle either way, and it was going to happen no matter what you did.  The least you could do was try and use it.

 

\--------------------------------------------

 

Keeping you off the field worked until there was another body.  You needed to see exactly what the unsub had done to the victim – in person – to be able to put all the pieces together.  Photographs could only tell so much.

“Victim was Joseph Feilding, he was the CFO here,” Rossi informed Hotch as he made his way to the scene, where you were already carefully looking over the details of how the victim was posed where he was sure to be found.

“Poisoned?”  Hotch was more assuming that than anything else.  The unsub had already broken her M.O.

“She drew X’s over the eyes in lipstick, covered his mouth in tape…” you sighed as you looked over the body left tied to a desk chair, naked save for his underwear, and left in the elevator, “She’s escalating, leaving a signature…this is a message, the only question is _what_ the message is.”

“She’s already exposed him at his most vulnerable.  Now she wants to be noticed,” Morgan agreed, in part.  There was something not quite right, at least not how you saw it.

“Not noticed,” you corrected swiftly as you exited the elevator to join the other three profilers at the scene, “ _Heard._   If a woman becomes a serial killer without the assistance of a man, it’s because she’s _desperate_ to be heard, and that desperation eventually becomes anger at being ignored, and the line between revenge for being hurt or ignored, and the act of killing to send a message becomes blurred.  Female serial killers see themselves as something closer to vigilantes than anything else, women generally get nothing out of killing so it’s always the last resort to fixing a problem.”

Your discussion was cut short as an attorney you recognized, he wasn’t your father’s but you still knew him, made his way back to the crime scene by just saying he was allowed onto the crime scene.

_Welcome to Dallas._

“Mr. Bartlett, I was wondering which attorney would end up crashing the crime scene, you’ll forgive me if I never bothered keeping track of your client list,” you greeted casually, almost _deadpan_ , not looking up from pulling off your latex gloves with a practiced hand before looking up and making introductions, “Agent Hotchner, meet Larry Bartlett, whom I suspect was Mr. Feilding’s attorney.”

“This is a closed crime scene, Mr. Bartlett,” Hotch just wanted to get this man off the crime scene as soon as possible.  Even as an attorney himself, or maybe even _especially_ because of that, Hotch couldn’t _stand_ dealing with the corporate attorneys that protected men like the trail of victims the unsub was currently leaving behind.  He was going to have to ask for a _full_ explanation regarding exactly how you knew Mr. Bartlett, though he did put most of the pieces together himself.  As your superior, he had to know your file and the names of your relatives – whether you spoke to them or not – were in there.

It wasn’t so much an explanation he wanted, as reassurance you were alright to work this case.  He’d trust your judgement…but the more time went on, the more on edge Rossi seemed to get simply by your involvement.  Hotch wasn’t _blind_ when you first joined the team.  You weren’t confrontational, you worked well with everyone, did your due diligence, and never gave him a reason to doubt your integrity or place in the BAU.  It was just…hard not to notice how closed off you could be.  You had opened up, come into your own, but submersing you into the world that turned you into such a scarred – and almost paranoid – girl in your early twenties to the point that you even kept any show of emotion tightly controlled…it worried him.  The BAU wasn’t just a team, it was a family, and as the head of that family it was his job to keep an eye out for everyone.

“Yes.  I spoke to Ellen Daniels.  She said you’re a very reasonable man.”  Bartlett held his head high

Hotch nodded slowly, before calling over to a nearby officer, “Escort him out, please.”

“No, wait, please,” Bartlett didn’t put much effort into his plea, like he just expected his wishes to be granted, “The press is outside, and they can smell blood.  It’s only a matter of hours until the whole city knows the lost _Princess of Dallas_ has come back as a government agent, if there’s any way we can keep this from getting any louder than it already is – “

“We’re not gonna’ _lie_ for you.”  Morgan stood firm, making the statement like it was just a _fact_ – and it _was_.  At least, you sincerely hoped it was.

“You don’t have to lie, just don’t comment.”  Typical corporate lawyer speak, you expected nothing less from Bartlett.

“Excuse us,” Hotch pulled you, Morgan, and Rossi aside to speak quietly, “Is there any reason to go public yet?”

“Validating her is exactly what she wants,” Rossi pointed out exactly why you _shouldn’t_ go public yet.

“If we keep quiet she’s more likely to make a mistake,” Morgan agreed.  Now wasn’t the time to go public, you had to keep quiet in order to frustrate the unsub.

“But they don’t know that, we can use the threat to go public to get them to finally give up information,” you pointed out, planning a way to get the attorneys to finally cooperate and give the information you needed to actually _solve_ the damn case so you could just _get the hell out of Dallas._   Luckily, you were thinking precisely what Hotch was already considering.  Play the fear of publicity to your advantage.

Getting all of Fielding’s information would be a start, at the very least.

“Eighteen cars, six houses, and three boats,” Spencer listed off the more expensive of Fielding’s possessions before jumping to the _obvious_ question, “Can you even boat in Dallas?”

“You know, when you’re talking about that much money, spending $10,000 on a call-girl is like deciding where to go for dinner,” Emily pointed out just exactly why there were going to be things that just didn’t make sense.  It was true, to most people it _wouldn’t_ make sense, and you weren’t fond of the fact that you’d be able to make sense of it.  The fact that you _had_ to was putting you in a worse and worse mood.

“He’s probably got two in Houston and one as close to the boarder as he can get,” you explained, through personal experience.  Houston had the whole boating community, it would make sense to have most of the boats there, but there was no giving up the thrill of getting as close to the boarder as possible.  Your comment earned some looks, doubtless they’d all heard about the whole _Princess of Dallas_ thing, it was already all over the news, but they’d all decided not to question it.  You never actually talked about your childhood, Emily and Rossi were the only ones that had any background information beyond who your relatives are, and decided it was best to just…not say anything.

_Thank god._

“You there Garcia?” Hotch double checked, as Garcia had been quiet while she focused on her work, back in her office in D.C., and he liked to double check she was alright.

_“Yes sir.”_

“I got a million dollars spent on something called the _Bat Cave_ …” JJ grimaced when she turned to the next page, “And a picture of him dressed up as fetish Batman…that is wrong.”

“Is there anything he didn’t like to spend money on?”  Spencer hadn’t seen the photos, he didn’t want to, but just the idea of something that _ridiculous_ was appalling.

“In my experience, I’d say his family,” you mused as you continued going through Fielding’s tax returns, completely unsurprised at the fact he managed to cheat his way out of paying as many taxes as possible _every year._

“You’d be right, Fielding was married four times.  He didn’t have prenups for the first two, but he did everything he could to cut off his ex-wives,” Hotch confirmed your assumption as he reported what he’d found regarding Fielding’s divorces and children.

“Are there children involved?”  Emily was aghast at the idea, sitting down to help sort through the papers after pinning the necessary aspects onto the board.

“Yeah, with three of the wives,” Hotch double checked as he answered before sitting down, “Hoyt Ashford was married a few times, too, wasn’t he?”

The wheels started turning and clicking into place as you looked up from the printed tax transcripts and returns you’d been rifling through, eyes wide and unblinking in what could only be described as a sadness-based fear.  Two was a coincidence, but what Garcia found just confirmed it all.

 _“You know, considering that when Kevin takes me to dinner and a movie he defaults on his student loans, this amount of money is sick,”_ Garcia commented as she continued to pull up more of the same thing time and time again.

“What did you find?”  This whole endeavor was becoming more and more exhausting as time went on, and it showed in Emily’s voice as Spencer sat down next to her.

 _“Well, all three of our dearly departed rich guys were embroiled in bitter court battles in how much to pay in alimony and child support, and even when the courts ruled in the wife’s favor – which was almost always – these three charmers just, you know, decided not to pay.”_   Garcia was getting angrier and angrier by the minute, but you were too dazed as it all clicked in your head and you turned to look at the board as if it would prove your fears wrong.  If anything, it just proved them _right._   Spencer noticed the second it happened, and when he didn’t join in to discuss the victimology, just why the unsub picked her victims the way she did, the conversation stopped.

“[Y/N], what’s wrong?”  Spencer knew there was no use in asking if everything was alright, the look on your face already told him that nothing was alright.  All he could do was ask what was wrong.

“The unsub’s from a broken home, but she was never lower class…” you answered, coming out of your daze as you turned to the others and explained, “The madame said every call-girl has a list of clients, I’m willing to bet our unsub bought the list with her father’s name on it.”

That…that was not a direction any of them had considered.  It was so out of the ordinary, something from a completely different world, that it might just be possible that they _couldn’t_ think of it.  But you…

“What kind of profile are we looking at?”  Hotch was quiet as he asked the question, and it wasn’t normally one he’d ask.  Profiles were something _everyone_ collaborated on, up until a member of the team had personal experience that could put all the pieces together.  This time…that was you.  You’d know more about this unsub than the rest of them, that was how you were able to see that she was specifically targeting men _just like_ her father, that she might have even started this line of work to begin this crusade.

“Twenty-five to thirty, white, born and raised in the upper classes but no higher than the men she’s targeting, because as you go higher in the one percent the money tends to get older and there’s more and more traditions to keep track of until it becomes an entirely different lifestyle.  She’s smart, she knows her clients will prefer to pay in cash but also be prepared in case she comes across an overly confidant client or an unmarried client that is willing to pay with a check or even card.  She blends in, nobody is going to pay 10 grand for a call-girl if she’s just going to get them caught, which means she’s got designer clothes, jewelry, bags, even lingerie,” you listed off, sitting back in your seat but staring off into space in the direction of the stack of papers you’d left on the rectangular table, “Her father did the exact thing to her and her mother that her victims have done to their own families.  Abandoned them for a call-girl or younger girl and refused to pay alimony or child support despite having millions of dollars at their disposal.  Because these men are willing to leave their families for her, and she knows it from experience, they’re probably paying for things like her car, apartment or hotel room, food, medical bills, or credit cards.”

It wasn’t even noon, you’d had a full night’s sleep and coffee, and you still looked so exhausted.  The light in your eyes was _gone_ , the lively tone of your voice was nowhere to be found, and you were almost sulking in your seat.  Even your skin looked clammy and pale.

“We’re giving the profile to the victims’ and potential victims’ attorneys, if you want to sit it out – “ it was a kind offer, and one you had to refuse as you looked up at Hotch.  He knew you were going to refuse, but he still had to try.

“Nobody here knows as much about this world as I do, and they’ll be more willing to talk if they see someone they think is a friendly face, but we have to keep them unaware of the fact that she’s the daughter of one of their clients.  If we do that, the whole game will change,” you explained as you stood up, grabbing the stack of tax transcripts and returns you’d been looking through and tossing them into a box, “All they’ll want to do is cover it all up, even if that means kicking us out and letting her kill everyone on her list.  They’re self-absorbed bastards and they’ll do anything, _break anyone,_ to make sure they and their clients get their way.  My face is already all over the news and those lawyers are already certain I’ll help them make this all go away.  We need to take advantage of it while we still can.”

 

\----------------------------------------------------

 

There was no missing the look on Spencer’s face, the soft gleam of worry in his eyes, as he saw what this case was doing to you.  It wasn’t just the exhaustion, going back to a life you did everything in your power to escape.  There was something else nagging in the back of your mind ever since you came to the realization that the unsub was born in the upper classes.  You kept it to yourself, kept it tucked in the back of your mind and tried your best not to let it show, but he could see right through it all.  If the unsub was about 25 to 30 and raised in the same circles you’d been in, and Dallas high society was really as small as you claimed, then you knew the unsub.  It was doubtless that you came to the same conclusion, that same knowledge sticking in the back of your mind as the entire team entered the unsub’s apartment, purchased for her by Fielding not long before he was killed.

Across town, at the same time, the very same unsub you were chasing was meeting with a new client, though not one she intended to kill.  He had stayed loyal to his wife, even years after she died of cancer.  He was just a nervous pawn she could get some information out of.  Information that included the fact that his lawyers were going to make it all go away because the FBI was going to play ball.

_Why wouldn’t the FBI help make everything go away?  [Y/N] [L/N] was an FBI agent, and she knew the value of keeping these things secret.  Her family was old money, came to the US in the 1600’s and helped fund the Patriots old money.  Homes all over the country, multiple investments and businesses, too many cars and boats to count, and treating a marriage as a business arrangement old money.  She’d make it all go away._

That…that changed _everything._

Porn in the DVD player, all of which had been watched.  High-end clothes and jewelry with a childhood promise ring.  First edition books, all read, one of which was Voltaire in the original French, which meant highly educated, _privately_ educated, which meant money.

You had desperately hoped to be wrong, but the fact that she read that book was enough proof you weren’t.  You knew Rossi was giving you a look, a concerned look.  He’d seen just what a mess you were when you were still in this world, how you only managed to survive due to a handful of friends, and how all of those friends had either died or dropped off the face of the Earth one-by-one in fairly quick succession.  This was trying on you, but there was more to it.  Every time someone could relate to the unsub, they always asked if it could have been them.  _How close was I to becoming this?  Could I have done this?  Where did things go differently for me?_

You identified with the unsub almost exactly.  Same hometown, same childhood, same expectations, same rules.  The only difference was the simple fact that your mother and father were _old_ money, the kind of money that treats a marriage like a business proposition, the closest thing to an arranged marriage a white family in Texas was going to get.  They didn’t like each other, but your mother didn’t want to run her family's fortune or lose her lifestyle, and your father had to make sure there was somebody to inherit the fortune and keep it going.  He wasn’t about to abandon the family for a prostitute, he had an image to protect.

Nothing was more important than that goddamn image, even if it meant turning his own children into pawns in some sick chess game.

The phone rang, and the discussion of what to do followed quickly.  Let Emily answer it and try to get more information, or hang back in case it was the unsub checking her voicemail messages.  Morgan called Garcia to get a trap and trace, but the call went to voicemail before anyone could answer the call.

That’s when your blood froze and your breath stopped, when she called you out using a childhood nickname only four other people ever called you.  Your sister, who died of leukemia six years ago, the nanny that raised you until you were eleven, whom you’d never seen again, and two girls you’d bonded with over the lives you lived.  The rest of the team was about to ask just who that was, but they all saw the way you reacted.

You didn’t just know the unsub.

_She had been a friend._

You placed your hand on the phone, ignoring the way Spencer looked at your mentor like he expected the old man to stop you or the way Rossi had to physically stop himself from actually stopping you.  You were getting too involved, you had to go home, you had to get out, if you weren’t careful…

_This case could break you._


	5. ...And Brought Me Back To Life

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> You were exhausted, to say the least. It had been less than a week, less than half of a week, and this case was already leaving you trained to the point it was physically noticeable. The entire team wanted to send you home, Spencer physically hated seeing you in such a state, but there was nothing they could do.
> 
> Even if they didn't need your personal knowledge of this world, you weren't going to leave.
> 
> Not after you learned you had a personal connection to the unsub.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Over half way done.
> 
> I can’t believe I put so much work and effort into one short fic in about a week, maybe week and a half, when I really don’t have the time for it.

# Like I've Never Been Hurt

### ...And Brought Me Back To Life

 

You nodded to Emily when you were ready to pick up, signaling to her to hit the speaker as you talked through the handheld.

“Hello?” you answered, almost making a beeline to the window overlooking the view, if only to avoid the rest of the team and their concerned looks, “You do know there’s only a handful of people who would call me that.”

_“I trusted you, [Y/N].”_

“You know how it is.  Lawyers won’t give up the information unless you make them think you’re working for them.  You know it’s all part of the game, right?”

_“I want to believe you.  I kept up with what you were doing, thought you could help me fix things if I could get you here.  Is that strange?”_

“Not at all, we all sort of depended on each other to get through the day.  Between the expectations, constant criticisms, lies, neglect, backstabbing…it takes a lot of trust to let someone in.  That kind of trust doesn’t just go away.”

_“We all looked up to you, especially when you managed to take off and break free.  You help people instead of take advantage of them…but now you’re just helping them cover it all up.  You’re just another whore.”_

“For showing up when they requested the BAU help with the case?”

_“Exactly.  You come when called.  You do their bidding.  You take the side elevator to avoid crowds, while the men who pay your salary walk across the ivory marble foyer into their cars.”_

You turned around trying to get some kind of indication on how much longer you had to keep her on the line.  One-minute left and you could get a location, so you had to keep talking.

“I take the side elevators to avoid the media, the less news there is about me the better, but that’s not what’s frustrating you.”

_“What do you mean?”_

“We’re busy investigating you when you think we should be investigating the men you’re going after.  You have a message to get out there, one that could get out there if we had gone public.  We would have put the details of exactly what kind of man your targeting, and their secrets would be all over Dallas before dinner.”

_“You don’t want to arrest me.  You just want to make me disappear!  Just like they do!”_

“Right now, we’re just looking for you,” you consoled softly, your tone changing immediately, tired and hurt as you explained, “Your father betrayed you when he left you and your mother, he completely abandoned you.  All you had was a boarding school education because he didn’t want you anywhere near him for as long as possible, and after everyone you did trust left you were all alone in the world with nothing and a complete inability to trust.  If you turn yourself in I can make sure you don’t disappear, you’ll get the help you need to recover…I healed, you can too.”

_“In a different world…maybe I could believe that.”_

All you heard after that was a gunshot and silence before the line went dead.  Garcia managed to track the call, but by the time you got there you only found news crews, a dead body in a car, and a white coat sprayed with blood splatter.

_She’s devolving._

 

\----------------------------------------------------

 

You knew you’d heard the woman’s voice before, but the last time you’d been in contact with your old friends was years ago.  You had been eighteen when you left, and despite attempts to keep in contact it was only a matter of months before it all fell apart for one reason or another.  The unsub changed her target victims, her M.O., her methodology.  All you really had was the fact that she used the word _whore_ to describe _anyone_ who came when summoned.  She was devolving, _quickly_ , and your best lead was a recording of the phone call.

“Who’s _they_?” Hotch wondered aloud, letting everyone jump on the chance to try and figure out the answer.

“The men she’s sleeping with, I’m assuming.”  Sweet, sweet summer child Spencer.  He knew so much about so many things, but this was something in which he was completely clueless.

“No, it’s bigger than that now,” Morgan pointed out, getting on the right track, “She’s lumping [Y/N] in with the lawyers.”

Prentiss added to the theory, coming to a tentative conclusion, “So, maybe it’s anyone in a position of power who could cover this up.”

“Wouldn’t be unheard of.  I had a cousin that got arrested for minor drug possession when I was twelve, two months later it was like she never even existed,” you explained the possibility of that being the case as simply as you could.  It was just easier to explain with an example, albeit a real example, than anything else at this point.

“That purity ring you found, you said it was tiny?” Rossi double checked before he explained the train of thought he was running on, “A little girl wouldn’t buy that for herself, it was a gift.  Maybe she’s talking about her father.”

“That matches with the theory that she’s from the upper classes and picks her targets because they’re like her father,” JJ agreed, her own eyes tired from the implications and complications of this case.  It was more than that, though.  She thought of it as her job to keep an eye on everyone on the team, Hotch included, and make sure they were doing alright.  She promised she’d do everything she could ever since she and Spence split up as they searched Hankel’s old barn. 

With you…with this case…she didn’t know where to start.  The complications, the damage, the fact that they needed you to remain the face of this case because you were the one the unsub spoke to – a fact they all hated – left JJ wondering just where to start helping you.  Drinks weren’t going to help, they were a temporary relief, and this wasn’t something you could just sleep off.  The chances of you opening up about it, more than you had to in order to solve the case, were low and you weren’t the type to just break down and cry even if she sat you down and told you she was there if you needed to.  You hadn’t even cried at the end of _Titanic_ , you just got pissed about the fact that Rose would – because she got out of the water – die of hypothermia before Jack and the fact that – if they were already breaking the rules of science – then the door wouldn’t sink or capsize when Jack got on it because there was plenty of room for him.

Just where the hell was she supposed to start helping you get through this?

Then there was Spence, who couldn’t keep his eyes off you as he anxiously waited for the moment you’d break down.  He’d come to the same realization JJ had, there was no pulling you off this case even if they _didn’t_ need you, and all he could do was wait and hope you’d at least seek _someone_ out when you broke down.  They weren’t…they didn’t know what you did when you broke down.  You’d been so good at keeping yourself together, that it was left a mystery to a majority of the team.  Rossi seemed to be on edge as he waited for it, though, which only made them more concerned.  The old man had practically been hovering over you every second he had the chance, he didn’t want you on the case to begin with but he couldn’t force you to stay in D.C.  All those scars from your past were coming back, and now that simply shutting down wasn’t your first reaction anymore, there was no telling just what you’d do.

Morgan was constantly reporting to Garcia on how you were doing, it was evident just from your voice how tired you were getting.  He doubted you’d gotten any real sleep, probably just laid in bed staring at the clock until the alarm went off.  All that work you’d done, all that effort you put into healing, and now you were toeing the line that would lead you into reverting into your old ways, stepping backwards and shutting down.  The worst part was, Emily had met you a few times before you left Dallas, and compared to what she’d heard about you when you first arrived at the BAU, she knew it could get so much worse than the rest of the team thought.  When you were a kid you were almost… _dead_ inside.  It was hard to describe.  Perhaps part of the change had to do with the fact you met other kids in the same situation, kids that helped you adapt and get through it, but eight-year-old girls weren’t supposed to have perfect etiquette as expected by Eastern Europeans.  They’re not supposed to greet businessmen in a foreign language with a practiced tongue as if she was an adult herself.

You all discussed how to figure out exactly who this girl is, and it all came back to the madame before coming back to one thing: _the list._   Every high-society call-girl has a list of clients, and she sells it when she retires.  You needed to figure out who had recently retired, and the best way to do that was to bring Ellen Daniels into the office and get her to give up the names.  In the meantime, as Rossi and Hotch spoke to Dallas’ expert in handling media cover-ups, you sat around picking at a bag of pretzels when you weren’t stirring your already cold coffee.  It took one look, _one look_ , towards you as you gave Spencer a tired smile while your best friend desperately tried to ease your troubles by rambling about literally _anything_ that came to mind, to set Hotch on a warpath and break Rossi’s heart as your spirit was just… _gone._

This case needed to be over.

_Immediately._

 

\-----------------------------------------------

 

“Megan…” you had been so quiet as you said the name, barely picking at the fries on your plate in the diner Spencer _insisted_ the two of you visit while Emily and Derek tracked down the previous owner of the unsub’s list, that Spencer barely heard you.

“Who’s that?” he asked, hating the fact he had to use the same tone of voice he used with children or victims as he questioned them.  You were falling apart right before his eyes, and he felt so damn _helpless_ about it.  He wished he could do something about this.  He wanted nothing more than to be able to just take you back home, make you forget this ever happened, even just make you smile and bring a little life back into your eyes.  Something.  _Anything._

“Both she and Susana were left by their fathers, but Megan took it personally…very personally,” you explained carefully, keeping your voice down as you avoided Spencer’s pitying gaze, “Susana learned to live with it, moved on, but Megan…I told her to call me if she needed anything, but she was so mad at me for leaving without her…I thought she would be okay if I gave her my number but…”

There wasn’t a last name, not yet, and pushing you would only make things worse.  He reached across the table of the booth and took your hand in his, causing you to look up at him, and knew it could wait the extra few minutes, Morgan and Prentiss were already following a lead that would – hopefully – lead to someone else.  Someone that just _overheard_ your friends calling you by that old nickname.  Someone you didn’t actually know well, which would be why you didn’t recognize her voice on the other end.  This would turn out to be someone you didn’t know, and it would all be alright.  You wouldn’t –

“If I hadn’t left…did I do this?”

You wouldn’t blame yourself…

 

\----------------------------------------------

 

You were right.  You were right.  It was Megan.  Brilliant little Megan Kane who’d been abandoned by her father only for her father to turn around and marry a woman that wasn’t the call-girl he’d abandoned her for.

The last few days, less than a week, felt more like three _years_ , but you couldn’t stop now.  You had to make things right.  You had to…you had to _fix_ this, even if it meant tracking down Ebbitt Kane and scaring him into meeting up with Megan.  That breath of life hadn’t returned to your eyes, but there was a steely determination that was…promising, perhaps.  It was better than the last few hours.

You waited with Hotch and Morgan in the hotel room Ebbitt Kane had reserved to meet with Megan, only for Ellen Daniels to show up, just as shocked as everyone else that neither of the Kane’s were there.  You dashed down the stairs in fear that you’d missed them, only for you to halt to a stop when you actually reached the lobby.

“Marble floor…this isn’t marble…” you muttered to yourself, looking down at the floor beneath your feet as it all clicked.  They weren’t there because it was the _wrong hotel._   Megan Kane worked out of four hotels, but there was one in particular she liked the most.  It was the same hotel that hosted multiple parties over your childhood, and she always loved how the ballroom glittered, and most of all the staff has their own confidentiality agreement.

 _The Chase Regent_.

“She’s at the Chase Regent!  I’m going ahead!” you took off down the hall before anyone could stop you.  They’d let you drive because you knew the area best, you’d learned how to drive on the streets of Dallas, and now Hotch was regretting giving you the keys to one of the cars.  You were taking off with no plan, Hotch hadn’t even had the chance to call for a barrier around the Chase Regent to make sure nobody entered or exited the hotel, there was no plan, and you were already in the car and driving off before they could even catch up to you simply because you’d taken off at a mad dash so suddenly.  They tried, they really did, but Morgan just barely managed to brush the handle of the rear driver’s side door before you drove off with the sirens and lights flashing.

Megan was an expert at tricking anyone in a room, girls that grew up in that world _had_ to be.  It was a survival tactic.  You had to act like you were _expected_ to, and that even meant fake crying when appropriate.  There was no telling what she would, or could, do.  You skidded to a halt, leaving the lights on after barely remembering to turn off the siren before dashing inside.

_You were there.  Gods, you were there.  Why were you there?  You looked so scared, so panicked.  She’d never seen you run that fast before.  She’d never seen you run outside of physical education classes.  You’d settled for dance lessons, joking that dancing and running were two different things.  Maybe you could fix this.  Maybe you could make sure none of this just disappeared._

_She had to take that chance._

Police cars and the rest of the team had arrived only seconds after you, you expected them to, but you never slowed down.  You took the few seconds you needed to get a master key from the desk and find the room reserved by Megan, you’d be surprised what you could get with an FBI badge, before taking off upstairs.  Why weren’t elevators ever fast enough?  They always took so long.  _Finally!_   You dashed down the hall, your gun still in its holster as you unlocked the door and stepped inside.

“Megan?  Meg!” you called desperately.  You didn’t see Ebbitt anywhere, but you saw the open balcony door, with Megan sitting back in one of the chairs as she placed an empty champagne glass on the table.  No.  No, no, no.

There she was, little Megan Kane with her golden blonde hair tied into a low side ponytail and those big brown eyes as she waited for death.  All you could think of was the girl with the braided pigtails who loved to smile and read for hours, who you’d speak French with whenever you hung out, who completely ignored the pressures of being a teenager and actually planned to remain a virgin until marriage.  She was so sweet, so smart, you honestly thought she would be alright until she left for college.  She could live with you when she left Dallas, she could call you and talk to you whenever she wanted…you thought…

“Meg,” you barely held back the sob, but the tears still fell as you kneeled by her chair.  First you watched your older sister die, now you had to watch a girl you’d looked after like she was your baby sister die.  It was too late to call 911.  All they’d be able to do was pronounce her dead when they got there.

“Nothing will change.  They’ll just keep going back to doing whatever they want.”  Her voice was shaky, she was trying to be strong, but she was scared to die.

“No.  Not this time.  I won’t let them get away with this.”  You were firm.  Through your tears, you were firm.  You couldn’t just stand by and let these men get away with hurting their own children, not like this.  Not when you could do something you should have done years ago.  Megan slowly turned to look at you, her eyes already glazed over from the poison she’d drank, and you saw the coldness melt away into the girl you’d considered family for years.  You should have tried harder to keep in contact, if you had –

“I’m so sorry…I should have waited to leave with you and Susana, I shouldn’t have left…you needed me and I just…” you placed your hand on her arm, draped along the armrest, and hung your head as the tears fell.  You were too late.  You were far too late.  You shouldn’t have abandoned those few you trusted.

“You needed to get out…we all did…”  She was tired, lethargic, couldn’t move her body.  It was only a matter of time.  She moved her hand, so you could see the SIM card she was holding in it.  The one thing that held all the information you needed to keep your promise.  The thing you needed to make sure these men couldn’t keep manipulating the world to their wants and gains.  It was an act of forgiveness, one you weren’t sure you deserved.

“Will you stay with me?” she asked, eyes red as she started to cry, and all you could do was nod as you pulled the second chair over close enough to let her rest her head on your shoulder.  You heard the ambulance siren as it arrived, but it was already too late.  She was seconds away, at most, and all you could do was hold her.

“It’s okay, sweetheart, you’re okay.  I won’t let anything else happen to you.  I promise.”  You were barely keeping your sobs at bay, but the tears kept coming as you lightly kissed Meg’s head, flashes of childhood memories running through your mind.  Days driving to the bookstore with Meg in the front seat and Susana in the back, the day you had to burry your sister, hours of studying for those perfect scores that were expected of the three of you both in school and your private lessons.  Long hours confiding in each other about your parents or boys you liked.  The silly gifts you’d give each other, singing along to songs on the radio, sharing your dreams for the future.  It all came rushing back to you at once.

“You never let me down…thank you,” Megan whispered with a bittersweet smile as she drifted away, shaking in a small fit caused by the poison for a minute before it all stopped.

_She was gone._

 

\-----------------------------------------------------------------

 

Spencer kept telling himself he should have waited, you had only missed two days of work and it was perfectly reasonable considering what you’d been through.  You were even _told_ to take the time off.  He knew your original plans for that Saturday were cancelled, that was a given, but he still just…wanted to check up on you.  Spencer was sure to pick up that book for you, at least he’d be able to use that as a ruse if you seemed reluctant or unhappy to see him.  It wouldn’t make sense for you to be either of those things, but he just…wanted to make sure.  When he knocked on your door and you answered, you were clearly _trying_ to act like it was all okay, dressed in denim shorts and an old Johns Hopkins University t-shirt with your hair left down and no makeup in sight.  You stepped aside and let Spencer in before shutting the door.

“I’m…I’m doing okay, I’ll be back on Monday.  It was just…a lot to work with,” you reassured, shakily, as you made your way back to your couch, confidant that Spencer was following you just after he kicked off his shoes, “It was all just…exhausting.”

“I know…facing your past is never easy, especially when you did everything you could to get away or forget.”  He knew that out of personal experience, you were _there_ when he had to face his past.  You’d been _there_ , days after the fact he was still trying to figure out how his life view had changed.  You’d been right there in the following days as well, and he knew he needed you there.  He just hoped his being there for you would do just as much good.

“I know…I…” you had your arms wrapped around your bent legs as you sat at the end of the couch.  The second Spencer sat down, you crawled over and, without asking, laid your head on his lap.  Spencer was taken a bit by surprise, but after a moment he started combing a hand through your hair, rubbing your back or your arm as you snuggled yourself into his lap, clearly not planning on getting up anytime soon.

“Thanks Spence,” you said quietly as you started to doze, feeling yourself fall asleep, a real sleep, for the first time since that damn case in Dallas started.  You were already asleep by the time Spencer smiled down at you, promising that he would be there _anytime_ , before taking the blanket off the back of the couch and placing it over you.

You wouldn’t mind if he read the book he got for you, picking it up from where he placed it on the side table and started reading.  It wouldn’t be a long read, but when he was done he could wake you and get you to actually eat something.

Spencer was determined to help you get through this, just like you’d helped him get through his hard times.


	6. Even If I Lose It All

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The BAU never handled cases that were 'easy' or 'simple.' If either of those words could be applied to a case, there would be no need for the BAU in the first place.
> 
> An anthrax breakout, however, was not something any of you expected to be dealing with.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is so simultaneously long and short.
> 
> I don’t know guys. I don’t know.

# Like I've Never Been Hurt

### Even If I Lose It All

 

It wasn’t easy, it took time, but you recovered.  You still liked to wear that side-braid at work, but it was mostly to keep your hair out of your face.  Besides that, your hair was always down.  You were happier, healthier, and the light and life had come back to your eyes.  On your days off, like this day, you left your hair down as you enjoyed the day outside.

The day in the park had been Penelope’s idea, and it was a good one.  Rossi had opted out, he had a speaking engagement for one of his books in Indiana, but Hotch had been able to convince Haley to let him bring Jack.  Will and Morgan were tossing a football around with Hotch and Jack, the young boy thought it was the best thing.  Spencer had _adamantly_ opted out of throwing a football around, he was well-aware of the fact he was more likely to catch it with his face than his hands, and opted for talking with you, Prentiss, JJ, and Garcia.  There had been a round of _pass the baby_ with little Henry, everybody wanted to hold the sweet little boy at least once, but you found yourself the designated holder until he woke up hungry.

He’d fallen asleep the _second_ he was in your arms, and JJ wasn’t about to argue.  If her son was peaceful and quiet, she’d take that as a blessing and move on.  Though, your innate skill and natural calming presence to Henry – as well as the many other children you’d encountered in your work – did bring up a question.

“You ever think about having kids someday?” JJ wondered, passing the water you’d requested across the picnic table.  Just like with Emily, she could see you having kids.  It was a good idea, you’d be a good mother.  Yes, you had scars in your past, but you worked past them.  You loved deeply and knew when and where to draw or cross lines.

“A few years ago I would have laughed in your face, but now…I dunno.  If I actually pull off dating and finding the right guy, which is doubtful in itself, then…yeah.  I’d like to have a family someday,” you admitted as you looked down at Henry as he snuggled into your gentle embrace before looking up and clarifying, “Considering that involves finding Mr. Right, that’s doubtful.”

The chances weren’t _low_.  You were intelligent, caring, funny, and when you loved you loved so deeply it practically consumed your entire being.  You had a light that continued to shine despite the darkness you were raised in and continued to face every day.  _Beautiful inside and out._

Spencer wasn’t just aware of his athletic shortcomings, he was aware of the fact that he was completely and utterly _smitten_ with you.  Every attempt to move on, to get over his feelings, convince himself that it was a bad idea or even try and readjust your spot in his mental love-map had failed.  He tried to ask for advice, even asked Garcia how she dealt with that crush she had on Morgan when they first met, and she didn’t have any useful advice.  All she had was something that clarified just how completely and utterly _fucked_ he was.

_“I got to know him, became friends, and I just started to love him in a different way,” Garcia answered honestly as they spoke in the privacy of her office, though Spencer expected the little quip that followed, “You became best friends with your dream girl, which is a very stupid move for someone so smart.”_

_Spencer opened his mouth to protest, to argue, to say something in his defense – anything – but all he could come up with was, “It’s not like I stand a chance.  Just help me get over – “_

_“Not to worry Dr. Loverboy, Penelope Garcia Matchmaker Extraordinaire is on the case.”_

Nothing happened, so Spencer had foolishly hoped Garcia had dropped it, then he saw that glimmer in her eye and couldn’t figure out how to stop her without it seeming so obvious.

“Yeah, I can only imagine the nightmare dating is for a sapiosexual,” she consoled teasingly, causing you to stare at her accusingly as JJ and Emily both turned their attention to you, but Spencer just _froze_ as he learned a piece of information he _never_ knew before.  All you could do was glare, silently cursing your friend as she spilled something you _really_ didn’t want the rest of the BAU to know.  You thought you could trust her!  You’d been drinking and catching up on episodes of Supernatural as you discussed which of the Winchester brothers were your favorite.  _What the hell Penny?_

“What’s a… _sapiosexual?”_ JJ questioned, brow furrowed more in teasing curiosity than anything else.  Emily, however, started to grin as she recalled just what that meant.

“It means she’s sexually attracted to intelligence.”  That bitch.  You loved Emily to pieces, but that _bitch_.  You told her about your little crush in _confidence_.  Anything said over tequila shots remains at the bottom of the tequila bottle.  And,  _and_ you'd been in  _Vegas_ when you let that cat out of the bag!  _Anything that happens in Vegas stays in Vegas!_ Like it wasn’t bad enough that Rossi had so _kindly_ pointed out that Spencer perfectly fit into your _very specific type_ the _second_ the old man returned to the BAU.

" _Oof,_ that's rough," JJ teased as she twisted the cap off of her bottle of water, "Not like you can look across a room and see their IQ."

Your three best (female) friends were _Mean Girls,_ and the closest thing you ever had to a real father was an absolute _asshole._   There was no other explanation for it.

 

\---------------------------------------------------

 

A local case could get messy enough, the potential for agency cross-over was much higher, but you hadn’t expected the goddamn _army_ to be in the BAU.

“What the hell is going on?” Emily asked you, Spencer, and Derek as you exited the elevator and walked into the office, all of you trying to figure out just what the state of emergency was.

“From the looks of it, I’d guess the apocalypse,” you replied, just as baffled as the rest of them.  Spencer was the first one to take off towards the meeting room to figure out just what the hell was going on, while the rest of you had to snap back into reality and follow closely behind.  That was where and when you found out just what the state of emergency was all about.

_An anthrax breakout._

That explained the army’s presence, as well as the presence of the CDC’s chief of special pathogens, Dr. Linda Kimura.

Someone had let loose anthrax, an airborne outbreak, in a park after about two p.m. the day before.  They all ended up checking into the hospital that very same night, and ten hours later, at about midnight, the first victim died.  Seven hours after that first victim, _twelve_ people were dead.  Anthrax, at least in its most recognized forms and those used in the last breakout, didn’t normally kill that fast.  You were clearly looking for someone that could alter the strain itself, but that didn’t exactly narrow down who you were looking for, especially in the areas surrounding Washington D.C. where many of the country’s best and brightest were kept.

“What are we doing about potential mass targets,” Prentiss questioned, starting at the most immediate problem, “Airports, malls, trains?”

Hotch clearly didn’t like the decision, even if it was the most logical – and best – one to make considering the circumstances, “There’s a media blackout.”

“We’re not telling the public?”  Sometimes you forgot just how green Prentiss was, she hadn’t dealt with mass breakouts or risks like this before.  This was easily the largest you’d ever had to deal with, but you knew the drill, whereas this was the first time Prentiss had dealt with something that wasn’t just chasing after an unsub.  It was so odd to remember that, she fit in so seamlessly with the BAU, like she was born to be there, that it was hard to forget there were times you were there and she wasn’t.

“We’d have a mass exodus,” Morgan pointed out, causing you to add in and specify just why keeping this from the public was the best idea, despite the inherit risks and dangers.

“Everyone in the D.C. area would gather on the roads, trains, and airports just to get out.  They’d be creating much larger groups than they normally would in large gathering areas, meaning an anthrax breakout could be that much bigger, especially if they don’t realize they contracted anthrax so quickly.  That’s completely ignoring the fact that people could easily get trampled and die in the rush to try and get out,” you reasoned, not happy with the call yourself while understanding the logic behind it.

“The group panic could cause more deaths than the anthrax,” Rossi agreed, just trying to narrow down the number of deaths that were already going to happen.

“Yeah, or whoever committed this last attack could go underground or destroy their samples,” Spencer added, pointing out the fact that those samples were the only chance at creating a _cure_ for whatever survivors were left.

“Or, if they wanted attention and didn’t get it, they might attack again,” Prentiss added in, recognizing the inherent risks of keeping the investigation quiet, “Doesn’t the public have a right to know that?”

“If there is another attack, there’s no way we’ll be able to keep it quiet,” Hotch jumped in, defending the decision while recognizing the risk, “Our best chance at protecting the public is building a profile as quickly as we can.”

There was one place to start, the strain of the anthrax itself, Spencer reasoned, and you were already far behind the unsub.  “What do we know about this strain?”

“The spores are weaponized, reduced to a respiral ideal that attacks deep in the lungs,” Dr. Kimura explained, efficiently as to cut down on any time that might be lost in the – necessary – debriefing, “Odorless and invisible.”

“Anthrax normally takes the form of a powder, and making any chemical odorless and invisible takes training,” you jumped in, pulling from your undergrad and Master’s in BioChem, before you switched gears for Behavioral Psychology.  Your trail of study wasn’t a _secret_ , they all knew you had studied BioChem before switching to what most scientists refer to as a _soft science_ for your PhD.

“Only a scientist would know how to do that,” Rossi added in, making it clear you were looking for a scientist, which did narrow down the suspect pool.  Most of the people in D.C. that would do something like this were politicians, agents, or people with an axe to grind.  Knowing you were narrowing down do scientists, experts, already threw out a few _million_ suspects.

“These lesions are doubling in size in a matter of hours.”  Morgan couldn’t help but be worried as he looked through the file on the victims, his brow furrowed as he kept his cool and focused on the profile.  That was what he did, he acted as an older brother to most of the team, and sometimes that meant burying his own concern in order to help the rest of you keep your cool.

Dr. Kimura jumped in, recognizing Morgan’s concern but approaching the problem from a clinical perspective, “It’s not the lesions I’m worried about.”

“It’s the toxins’ presence in the lungs that kills these people,” you agreed, looking over the medical charts, you weren’t asking how the CDC managed to get those so quickly with HIPPA laws being what they are.

“And we don’t know how to combat them once they’re inside,” Dr. Kimura added the final nail into that coffin, she was on edge, anxious, calculating but terrified to lose more people to this outbreak, “And the reality is, we may lose them all.”

“The remaining survivors have been moved to a special wing at Walter Reed Hospital,” JJ reported, knowing full well that someone was going to have to talk to these victims about anything they noticed at the park, our offices will become a small command center.”

Hotch jumped in, adding details that would serve as a warning, especially to Rossi, “We’ll be working with military scientists from Fort Detrick.”

“General Whitworth is coming here?”  Rossi’s own concerned surprise gave you a reason to pause looking over the medical files and look up at him.  He knew this General Whitworth, and his own concern meant Whitworth was either going to actively combat the BAU profilers or go off and do his own thing without keeping you informed.

“He’s in charge of site containment and spore analysis.”  Hotch said that like there was no getting around dealing with the general, “Determining what strain this is will help inform who’s responsible.”

“My team is in charge of treating all victims,” Dr. Kimura reassured, her team would be trained in dealing with contagions like anthrax and likely knew more about the subject than most doctors.

“Reid, [L/N], go with Dr. Kimura to the hospital, interview the victims.  Morgan and Prentiss, there’s a hazmat team that will accompany you to the crime scene,” Hotch split everyone up, sending you to locations where you would be most useful considering your skillsets, “There’s cipro.  Everybody needs to take it before we go.”

“We don’t know if it’s effective against this strain,” Dr. Kimura admitted as she held up the metal tray of small plastic cups, each filled with two pills for everyone to take, “But, it’s something.”

“This is really happening?”  Prentiss just had to be sure.  This wasn’t a dream, this wasn’t a hoax, this was… _real_.

“We knew this could happen.  We’ve done our homework,” Hotch reassured, stating it like a _fact_ , there was no argument that you were unprepared because you _were_ , “We’ve prepared for this.  This is it.”

All that was left was for the morbid toast, and it was best to leave that to Rossi.

 _“Jin Dan._ May you live 100 years. _”_

 

\---------------------------------------------------------

 

You and Spencer had been deep in discussion with the nearby doctors, trying to get a fuller grasp on the strain of Anthrax than what was described in the debriefing.  It _was_ what you were expected to do, while Spencer tried to find some files he wanted to look over.  You had kept talking with the scientists that were nearby, both in and out of military uniforms, as he took off down the back hall to see if JJ managed to get hold of those files.  There were still bits and pieces missing from the medical files you’d been looking over, and those files had been pulled at about two in the morning.  The victims likely had undergone more treatment since then, and you had agreed you needed the latest information possible.

“Anything new or noteworthy?” you asked as Spencer met back up with you at the bullpen, where you were speaking with Dr. Kimura and Rossi before making your way to the garage to grab an FBI issue black suburban, “Strange side-effects to drugs, good or bad?”

“Some people seem to be responding to the cipro, but only enough to buy some extra time.”

‘So, this strain has enough of the version used in 2001 to give a few people some extra time on cipro.  You think looking at anyone who worked on anthrax is a good idea?  Maybe even people who helped study it, containment methods, even studied _cipro_ or potential cures?”  You thought it would be a good place to start, but you wanted to make sure.  During the 2001 Amerithrax breakout, Dr. Hatfill had been wrongfully accused, and he would be one of the people that fit those descriptions.  It wasn’t going to be easy getting hold of these people.  At least, it wasn’t in a _regular_ situation.

This was entirely different.

“It would be a place to start, we can cast a wide net, focus on people who worked with anthrax and move from there,” Rossi agreed, despite the risks, before pulling you into a fatherly hug and simply asking, “Be careful out there, kiddo.”

“You too, old man,” you couldn’t help the bittersweet smile, widening it to try and reassure Rossi as you pulled away before making your way to the hospital with Dr. Kimura and Spence.

Any goodbye could be the last, especially in cases like this, but you and Rossi had never been ones for long goodbyes.  It was better just to reaffirm that you wished for the best, share a hug or handshake, and leave it at that. 

Long and heartfelt speeches were only necessary if you left things unsaid.

 

\-----------------------------------------------------

 

There weren’t many survivors left, only a handful including a young boy, and you and Spencer immediately split up the list of survivors based on their age and gender.  It would be easier for you to get answers all on your own, as a female American society automatically assumed you were harmless, but males in their adolescent or teenage years would also be actively trying to help you.  As a male agent, teenage girls would immediately recognize Spencer as an authority figure and any fear of males would be lessened if Dr. Kimura stayed with him.  You accepted the escort of a doctor from Dr. Kimura’s team, a Dr. Timothy Blake, asking a few questions regarding any recent treatment changes and giving him your direct number in case anything changed, or they discovered something that did work.

Your first stop was speaking with the little boy whose mother had just passed, then it was off to speak with a few of the surviving teenage boys.  You could get bits and pieces, but so many of them were experiencing aphasia as the poison started effecting the parietal lobe of the brain, there was only so much you could get.  As you made your way down the hall to meet up with Dr. Kimura and Spencer, you started talking with Dr. Blake – you had yet to take him up on his offer to call him _Tim_ – about what he’d noticed about the exact biochemistry of the medications, what chemicals could work and what couldn’t.  Perhaps there was a combination that could do the trick.  You kept coming up with nothing, save for the fact that the morphine only put the patients at peace, but you had to _try._

_No.  No, no, no.  This wasn’t the time…this wasn’t the damn time.  People’s lives were at stake._

Dr. Timothy Blake was tall, well built, handsome, charming, neat black hair, blue eyes, smart enough to be part of the CDC, and you just gave him your card.  You did it to streamline communication, allow Dr. Blake to inform you of changes directly, but the number on your card had both your desk and personal cell number.

This was…this was what he was preparing for.  This was what he was hoping for.  A trigger to _force_ him to get over his feelings for you.  Like ripping off a band aid.

Ripping off that band aid felt a lot more like having his heart ripped out of his chest, but he’d get through it.

_What the hell are you thinking?_

Right now, there were people _dying_ , nobody recognized that more than the people working here, at Walter Reed Hospital.  You’d been there when they had to pronounce one off the teenage boys, he couldn’t have been more than seventeen, and even those who had – admittedly mild – positive effects to cipro were dying, s _ixteen out of twenty-five were already dead._

You didn’t have time to think about the implications of giving your card to a guy who was obviously interested in more than just working with you.  You had to start figuring out what to do about this.  It wasn’t long until someone else died, pulling Dr. Kimura and Dr. Blake away from you and Spencer as the four of you discussed specific details.  Minutes later, the seventeenth victim had died

“38-year-old high school history teacher.  Leaves two kids behind,” Dr. Kimura was heartbroken, trying her best to keep moving, and Dr. Blake was the last to leave the room.  They weren’t used to dealing with death in the ways or amounts you and Spencer had already dealt with.

“Seventeen out of twenty-five dead,” Spencer announced the count, just as frustrated as you were at the fact you had _nothing_ to go on but the fact that the unsub was at the park, and he at least had _access_ to a scientist.  A few years ago, the BAU had faced a doctor poisoning people with _botulism,_ all to get back at the pharmaceutical company that had screwed him over.  This was…different.  To get access to anthrax was already hard enough, and to let the attack loose in the D.C. area was enough of a sign in and of itself.  This may have a similar cause behind it, but you couldn’t rule out the idea that someone was testing a new form of Bio-Terrorism.

Not when something like anthrax was involved.

“This strain is duplicating every 30 to 45 minutes,” Dr. Kimura reported, she had long since abandoned her blazer and rolled up her sleeves, and the bun her thick black hair was tied into was becoming messier and messier as the situation got worse and worse, she cared too much for her own good, and her onyx eyes were just staring off into the distance in front of her as she stood at the nurses station, “It’s poisoning the lungs, causing massive hemorrhaging and organ failure.”

“Extreme bacterial amplification,” Spencer concluded softly, the two of you looking at each other as it clicked in both of your minds.

“That requires a lot of testing,” you spoke your shared conclusion aloud, letting Dr. Kimura in on what the two of you were thinking.

“What do you mean?”  She wasn’t in law enforcement, she wasn’t an investigator, she was a _doctor_.  Dr. Kimura needed to be filled in on just what the two of you were thinking.

“Think about the way scientists work their way up to human testing,” Spencer started, easing the CDC doctor into the line of thinking you and Spencer had already traveled down, “They start with rodents and advance to larger mammals, and then, at some point, they do a very small trial run with people.”

“This can’t have been his first human test run,” you finished, being the one to confirm Dr. Kimura’s fears about just what the two of you were saying.  She didn’t want to believe it, she didn’t want to believe there were more people she couldn’t save from this outbreak, and you couldn’t blame her.  You’d pulled Spencer aside earlier, before you even got into the car, to discuss it.  Dr. Kimura was in her line of work because she believed it was the best way to help people, to save people, using her skillset and talents.  She may have acted the stern boss and fought her way to her position, but it was because she wanted to work for the greater good.  It was so… _so_ screamingly obvious.

“We would have heard about a previous anthrax attack.”  She was sure of it.  They would have heard, and they would have acted, and this never would have happened.  Spencer was the bearer of bad news, gently and quietly, in a way to reassure Dr. Kimura that it wasn’t her fault.

“Not if it presented itself as something else.”


	7. I've Got So Much Left To Give

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Like the anthrax breakout wasn't stressful enough on its own. You couldn't help but think one of Spencer's doctorates was in giving you a goddamn heart attack.
> 
> Of all the members of the BAU team to catch this demon strain of anthrax, it had to be him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Not surprised I had to break Chapter 6 into 2 parts

# Like I've Never Been Hurt

### I've Got So Much Left To Give

 

You and Spencer were sticking near the nurses’ station, it was as close to a meeting room as you were going to get, as you waited for his cell to ring.  After you texted Rossi to call Spencer’s cell, you had to hold the phone right up to your face if you wanted to be heard on the other end, and warned him that it likely wasn’t the first attack.  It was only a few minutes, long enough to take a seat and get some coffee, before the speaker phone in the conference room called Spencer’s cell.

“Helloo?” he answered, like everything was _completely_ normal, and you had a hell of a time trying to hide your amused smile and urged to giggle at your absolute _dork_ of a best friend.

 _“Uh, Reid, you have me, Rossi, and Hotch,”_ JJ spoke over the other end of the line.  She sounded stressed, likely immensely concerned over Will and her son.  Everyone you knew and loved in the area was already on the BAU…you couldn’t imagine what she was going through knowing there was something that could kill her son and love of her life in one fell swoop, and knowing she couldn’t tell them about it.

“Kimura made some calls.  It turns out two people in two separate Baltimore E.R.’s and one person in a Philadelphia E.R. slipped into comas and died suddenly,” Spencer immediately jumped in, filling the others in on everything you’d learned at the hospital, “Now, the C.O.D. was meningitis, they didn’t even test for anthrax, but both [Y/N] and I think it could have been caused by anthrax.”

 _“did they show symptoms that we’re seeing now?”_ Rossi questioned on the other end of the line, listing off the most obvious symptoms, _“The lesions?”_

“Based on how quickly they died, the lesions didn’t even have had time to develop.  If he was still testing, it might have taken weeks for the lesions to appear, but even with this version it still takes a few hours,” you explained briefly as you and Spencer stood close, common practice when you were on speaker phone, “These first few people had all of the same symptoms as our current victims, they only died three hours after being admitted.”

 _“The first victim died after ten hours of being admitted.”_   Hotch could see where you were going, was well aware the two of you had far more clinical and scientific expertise than the rest off the team, but he needed something more concrete to follow the lead the two of you were proposing.

“Here’s the thing, if they inhaled a higher concentration of the strain, it would cause a quicker death,” Spencer added, very quickly walking through the details, “Organ failure without exterior physical symptoms.”

“That’s not even counting what could happen if they had open wounds at the time.  This is somebody that knows chemicals, they could have started out trying to make a cutaneous anthrax, something you catch just by touching it, or even gastrointestinal and fed it to them, which would ensure they got the entire dose.”  You finished, almost completing the regular cycle of how the two of you worked in the field.  It didn’t even need to be discussed, you just knew who would speak when and what they would say.  It was just part of how the two of you were, part of spending so much time together.

Hotch was convinced.  _“Who were the victims?”_

You listed off the victims, confidant that someone would take the names to Garcia.  If Penelope Garcia couldn’t find any connections, then _nobody_ could.

 

\-----------------------------------------------------------

 

The previous victims had been hit when they all visited the same bookstore, which had been closed for a while.  Business records showed that it didn’t receive many visitors, and those three victims were _the_ last three – which explained why only three people had contracted anthrax.  That, as frightening as it could be considering the large amount of people Morgan and Prentiss observed just casually spending their time outside the closed bookstore, got the team a lead.  Whoever was behind this new strain of anthrax had to have a history with the place.

By now, very few of the victims in the park were alive.  The teenage girl, Abby, that Spencer questioned was still alive.  She was practically unconscious from the amount of morphine it took to keep her comfortable, but she was alive and _fighting._   She wasn’t the only one, she was one of three still fighting – including the little boy – but as more and more people died it became clearer and clearer that Dr. Kimura was a doctor and scientist.

“When the next of kin have questions…what do we tell them about cause of death?” she’d asked, and you weren’t sure how to quickly explain how to avoid saying the truth without lying.  It was something you and Spencer had practically mastered in your years on the BAU, but to people who never had to do that before…it could be nearly impossible to teach.  Either way, it was proof of one thing.

It would be impossible to contain the story beyond the end of the day.

You and spencer couldn’t be back at the office as the rest of the team gave the profile, the two of you were too busy picking up what you could at the hospital.  You were the only ones that could make sense of the medical implications of what was going on, and match that with the profiling to help find this unsub.  To top things off, seeing so many people die was starting to weigh on the CDC staff working with the anthrax victims.  You were the only two on that entire floor that knew how to keep your heads up and keep going.  You were needed there, at the hospital.

 _For now_ , anyway.

 

\--------------------------------------------------------------

 

You were looking for someone with a bullet-point focus on anthrax, someone who studied and researched it.  Somebody who obsessively wrote and preached about how dangerous it was.  He likely took excessive boosters, separated from his family, and was recently professionally humiliated via a demotion or some other experiences.  He knew about the 2001 anthrax breakout, probably better than the actual culprit did, and obsessively spoke about how to protect from it, even talked about what he did right or wrong.  He was watching the news, watching to see how the country reacted.

There was someone who fit that profile, and someone who immediately came forward to tell the BAU team members in the office.

Dr. Lawrence Nichols, forced out of anthrax research and into more mundane things after he tried to convince a subcommittee to tell the country to spend _billions_ of dollars on preparing every family in America for an anthrax epidemic.  He thought it was lucky that the 2001 Amerithrax incident only caused five deaths, that every house needed has masks and _two months_ worth of cipro.  It was…

Frankly, it was unrealistic at best, obsessive at worst.

So, naturally, Dr. Nichols reacted when his proposal was turned down.  He claimed the committee was in denial, that Americans needed to live in constant fear that the country was going to be attacked by anthrax at any moment, that they were going to be the reason the next anthrax attack killed even more people.  He had the access, was kept from every prominent position within the CDC and started working on _flu vaccines_ , and got divorced.

The way he perfectly fit the profile was _frightening_.

 

\----------------------------------------------------------------

 

You were grateful to be pulled from the hospital and back into the field.  You couldn’t believe you thought that, it felt so wrong, but the only thing keeping that little boy from asking for his – now _deceased –_ mom was the fact he was practically unconscious.  You didn’t even care that you were likely getting the butt-end of the job, checking out Dr. Nichols’ home as it would be so much safer to work on this new strain of anthrax at his lab.  The guy just had a charity event at his home, the chances he was working on anthrax in the same place were slim.

_Especially if that was where he lived._

Rossi had been the one to say you needed to go to Nichols’ home, not that you knew, if even just for a few minutes of fresh air.  Hotch had originally been planning on keeping you at the hospital, but he understood where Dave was coming from.  You needed the space, the air, you just needed out off that hospital where you felt helpless.

The fresh air was nice, and the rose bushes were too – though you made sure to avoid brushing up against them.  Every rose has its thorns – Spence found that out the hard way when he accidently caught the back of his hands on one of the thorns of a nearby bush.

Morgan’s cell had a high-pitched ring that always caught your attention, always caused you to stop, and the fact that Morgan answered the call on _speaker_ kept you around instead of following Spencer into the house.  Any scientist would know the risks, and expenses, of having a fully-stocked lab at home.  That’s why most scientists _didn’t have one_.  He’d be –

_“The lab is clean.”_

You took off at a sprint faster than you’d ever run before.  Faster than you did for your FBI physicals, faster than you did when you learned your sister was flatlining in the hospital, faster than you did when you figured out where Meg was.  The only thing that stopped you was the door Spencer barely slammed shut in time, causing you to practically bounce off it.  Your heels clicked against the wooden floor beneath you as you took a step back, looking up at Spencer through the window in the door.

The only thoughts running through your mind were the same.  _Not him, anyone but him._   You were terrified, too terrified to care who saw it on your face, as the reality that you might lose him made you incapable of _anything_ but fear.

_Eyes wide, cheeks flushed, skin pale and clammy, lips parted, accelerated breathing._

You were scared.  You were scared for him, scared of losing him.  Morgan was right behind you with a hand on your shoulder, both to support you and comfort himself.  He was scared too, scared for his friend, but all Spencer could do was focus on the absolute terror in your eyes.

There was nothing Spencer could say, nothing he could do to try and quell your fears, except offer two words, quietly spoken as the reality chilled all three of you.

“I’m sorry.”

 

\----------------------------------------------------------

 

You weren’t going to leave, even after Hotch and General Whitworth arrived with an entire hazmat team.  Dr. Nichols had been dead about three days, too long to have infected the people in the park the day before, and there was no convincing Spencer he would be better off in the hospital.  He wouldn’t even take morphine, and you couldn’t tell if that was because he didn’t want to risk his mind dulling even more or risk craving the dilaudid again after more than a _year_ since the last time he had any.

All you knew for sure was you were _possessed_ with concern.  You weren’t leaving, and your only comfort was that Derek was going to be there with you.  There was a partner, one who needed to be instructed on basic functions in a lab, even sterilizing lab equipment.  He wasn’t the scientist, but he made his use of Dr. Nichols and got rid of the man the second he got what he needed.

Spencer knew he only had a few more moments alone, he could see the hazmat team outside the windows as they suited up and prepared to enter.  Worst of all, he could see you pacing back and forth.  It was real.  He’d seen people die of this before.  He’d been in a situation where he might die before.  He knew exactly what he wanted – what he _needed_ – to do.  He pulled his cell out of his pocket, dialing the number to Garcia’s office, and didn’t even have to wait through an entire ring before she answered the phone solemnly.

_“Hey Reid.”_

“Wow, _Reid_ ,” he commented, desperately trying to ignore the fact that he was likely going to die, despite the entire reason he was calling the technical analyst in the first place, “No, uh…no witty Garcia greeting?”

 _“I can’t be my sparkly self when you are where you are.”_   Her love for the team knew no bounds.  The second one of you, _any_ of you, were in trouble her entire mood changed.  All she wanted was for everyone to come home, safe and alive, and it wasn’t looking like that would happen this time.

“Garcia, do you think you can do something for me?”

_“Anything.”_

As…personal and… _final_ as the act was, he should have expected that.

“I know I can’t, uh, call my mom without uh…” he had to stop to clear his throat, it was better than coughing and making Garcia worry even more, “Without alerting everyone at her hospital.”

_“What do you need?”_

“I uh…I need you to record a message for her, in case anything happens to me.”

 _“Oh, nothing’s going to happen to you.  You’re going to brilliantly find out who did this, and we’re gonna treat this strain.”_   Her optimism was admirable, and even partially for herself.  She needed to believe that.  If she didn’t…

“I hope you’re right but uh…if you’re not, I really wanna make sure she hears my voice…”  Spencer wanted to believe Penelope, he really did, but he just…the facts were all there.  He couldn’t just _ignore_ them.  That’s not who he was.

 _“Okay just…give me a sec…”_   Penelope was quiet on the other end.  Doing something like this made it all real.

Outside you were pacing, biting at your thumb nail on occasion, putting your hands on your hips before pulling your phone out of your pocket to check the time, watching the hazmat team, look towards the windows lining the room your best friend was in, and then the cycle would start again.  Morgan had seen these signs before, both in the Chicago PD and the BAU.

“You love him, don’t you?”

You turned on the balls of your feet, completely taken out of your concerned pacing at Morgan’s announcement.  He wasn’t really asking that question, he was _saying_ it, like no matter what you did he was going to believe it was true.

“I…look, I come with a lot of baggage.  You saw what happened in Dallas and – “

“And the only thing he cared about was if you were gonna be okay,” Morgan cut in, ducking his head down a little so he would be closer to meeting you eye-to-eye with his brow furrowed and that damn sincere look on his face, “It’s not my place to say, but you gotta say _something_.  You spend every weekend together.”

“We work together.  Having a relationship outside of work puts our effectiveness in the field at risk.”  You thought that would be a good enough argument, then Morgan had to bring his goddamn _logic_ into things.

“And you two don’t already have a relationship outside of work.  Why else would you spend every waking moment together?”

“ _What do you want me to do?”_ you snapped angrily, not caring who heard you for that one split second before you regained yourself, “What am I supposed to do, huh?  Tell him I love him now?  Right before he _dies_?  Burst in there and confess my love so we can die together?  Tell him right _as_ he dies?  Or maybe tell it to his gravestone?”

Morgan’s entire demeanor changed, standing upright as he regretted his decision to bring this topic of conversation up at that _exact_ moment.  You had a point.  Now wasn’t exactly the time to do or say anything about it.  He had nothing to say after you snapped at him like that, and with the tears forming in your eyes all he could do was pull you into a hug and hope he could figure out a way to _fix this._   Worse yet, he could feel damp spots where your tears were staining his shirt and there was nothing he could say to make it all okay.  He just…all Morgan wanted to do was wake up and live the whole damn day over again.

That was the same thought process Garcia had as she recorded two messages for Reid.  One was for his mother.  Sweet, heartfelt, and everything a mother needs to hear.  She asked if Reid wanted to record anything for you, and she almost regretted that when she heard the message.  It was raw, entirely unplanned, and almost agonizingly honest.

_“I know…I know what you think about yourself, and it couldn’t be farther from the truth.  You’re amazing.  Even after everything, you’re brilliant, and kind, and…even as a kid I couldn’t dream up someone like you…I’m so scared of losing you as a friend I have to…just…don’t blame yourself.  Please…I love you.”_

Stupid genius and his stupid request and his stupid messages making her cry like that cause he was trying not to cry.  Stupid, stupid genius.

 

\-----------------------------------------------------

 

The entire point of being in that lab was to look for the cure, but it was also the best chance at figuring out who the hell let that damn poison out into the public.  As you spoke with Spencer over speaker phone with Morgan, Garcia patched in as well, you were grateful Spencer couldn’t see you because the smile you faked as you greeted him over the phone was pitiful.  Even your _‘hey Spence,’_ made it clear you were terrified for him.

Spencer was desperately looking through the lab to find something that would give any idea to who Dr. Nichols’ partner was, at least before they turned on Nichols.  They weren’t a co-worker, so it had to be from some other connection.  Dr. Nichols kept a binder filled with every syllabus for every class he’d taught since the 1970’s and a picture of him teaching, so it was likely a student.  A student in _social studies_ , based on the thesis Spencer found in the lab, a thesis Dr. Nichols was helping his partner prepare for submission.  Compare that with former employees or people that had issues with the bookstore that served as a test run –

 _“Hot to Trot.  There’s a Chad Brown, school of public policy at U of M.  Matches a Chad Brown, former employee at the Book Front,”_ Garcia announced her success, finding the identity of the unsub.

“That’s gotta be him,” Morgan reasoned.  There was no other explanation.

 _“Totally,”_ Garcia agreed as she scanned over what she’d found and gave you the summary, _“He’s been in the doctoral program on and off for five years.  Nix on a steady job.  Was slapped with a restraining order from his former girlfriend, and was arrested and released twice at protest rallies in D.C.,”_ Garcia confirmed with a list of information that gave you an idea of who you were dealing with, _“I’ll tell Hotch.”_

“Alright, Spence you gotta get out of there.  _Now.”_   You were begging that he’d listen to you.  The chances were slim, but he had a better chance at the hospital.  You had to…you had to cling to that desperate hope.

There was no argument, just a simple _bye._   The decontamination tent was already set up, you and Morgan stepped inside the safe zone, a clear plastic curtain separating you from the decontamination shower where the CDC team was hosing down Spence.  Thank _god_ for waterproof makeup and setting spray, because the last thing he needed was to worry about you bursting into tears.  It wasn’t long until the rest of the team formed a plan, calling Morgan to relay the information to the three of you.

“You look like a wet rat.”  You grimaced slightly as you brushed those loose strands of hair back behind your ear, as Morgan spoke on the phone with Hotch.  Spence was not exactly amused, but you hadn’t exactly meant the comment to be _teasing._

“Thanks, [Y/N], you always know what to say.”  He could see that fear in your eyes now, the redness left behind from your tears, your makeup remained in place, but it didn’t hide the swelling from your tears or your sniffles.  You were doing your best to stay strong for his sake, it was the very least he could do to return the sentiment.

“It’s a gift,” you gave a small smile, trying to lighten the mood and the weight of just what was happening, just why Spencer was in that shower in the first place.

“They’re checking out Brown’s house,” Morgan filled the two of you in after he hung up, he was going to add in the details, but Dr. Spencer _wet rat_ Reid cut in.

“Go help Hotch.”  You couldn’t tell if he was shivering because the water was cold and his clothes were soaked, or because of the contamination.

“We’re taking you to the hospital.”  You put your foot down.  You weren’t leaving, and you knew Morgan didn’t want to leave either.  You already talked about this, even if both of you couldn’t go at least one of you was sticking with Reid.

“I’m about to get naked so they can scrub me down,” Spencer pointed out, almost casually, as a look of realization crossed Morgan’s face and you started kicking yourself for forgetting decontamination protocol in your haze of worry and dread, “Is that _really_ something you wanna see?”

You shared a look with Morgan.  This wasn’t _exactly_ the situation the two of you had planned for, but you already knew what you’d do.  Morgan turned to leave, making his exit, and it looked like you were going to follow him until you completed your 180 turn and stood there with your back towards your best friend.  Your only real solace was the fact that it looked like they found the cure inside the lab, but there was no telling until it was tested.  For all you knew, it was just an asthma inhaler.  Spencer wasn’t even going to ask if you were kidding or not, he knew you weren’t, and there were more pressing matters as, when he started taking off his tie, Dr. Kimura noticed the scratch on the back of his hand.

“Dr. Reid, did you cut yourself?”

_Oh god…he didn’t just inhale it…it went directly into his bloodstream…_

 

\-----------------------------------------------

 

Spencer was doing his best to keep calm, even cracking a joke about his throat being dry.  At least he _tried_ , before the aphasia started and he started coughing up blood.  You weren’t allowed in his room as they fussed about, making sure he didn’t die, but all you could do was call Garcia to give an update.  It wasn’t the one you wanted to give but…you had to do it.

Beyond that, all you could do was wait and watch through the windows and glass door separating you from the room.

If ever you needed that unrealistic perfect ending…now was the time.


	8. Gonna Give It All I Got

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It was okay...it all turned out okay...
> 
> For once in your life...it was okay...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have a couple ideas for some more stuff that’ll take place after this, but it involves some MASSIVE time skips. Still mulling it over, might turn that into its own mini-series with a different Rea. Not sure yet.

# Like I've Never Been Hurt

### Gonna Give It All I Got

 

Just about everyone else had called their loved ones and gone home, but you just stayed in the hospital.  You received word that Brown had been caught, and Dr. Kimura had sprinted into the room with a dose of the cure for Spencer, and you just stayed where you were.  Sitting by his hospital bed, hoping it wasn’t too late.

You didn’t exactly have anyone else.  You’d tried looking for Susana, but word had it she’d taken off for Europe and you had no way of tracking her down.  You were practically disowned by your parents when they found out you were going to use your skills to work in the public sector instead of making a fortune before marrying a rich guy they picked out for you.  Megan had died.  Your sister, Liza, had died before you even finished your training at Quantico.  The one nanny that had stuck with you and your sister until you were 11, Mary, had died last year.

Besides the team and your one goldfish…there was nobody.

You’d eventually fallen asleep, as the calm of that unrealistic perfect ending you’d prayed for settled in and the adrenaline from your anxiety passed.  Granted, it was about three in the morning when you fell asleep, but you still managed to do it.  You briefly woke up when Derek arrived, first thing in the morning, and told him that there was a cure to that demonic strain of anthrax that had caused all of you so much stress, before placing your head back down on the hospital bed for _just one more minute._

You felt a nudge in your side, hard enough to practically shove you awake, which caused you to wake up and blink a few times as you tried to make sense of what just happened.  Morgan said something about _getting more Jell-O_ as he left, and Dr. Kimura had already left to check on the other patients – all of which were making full recoveries last you checked.

“Morgan said you were here all night…”  Spencer sounded a little surprised, as much as he could manage in his state of exhaustion.  He would be just fine to leave the hospital by the end of the day, but he’d still need to rest for a few days, much like someone who recently fought off the flu.  You just…you wanted to make sure he could at least get home.  Maybe you’d stick around and make sure he was settled and had everything he needed before you left for home.

Spencer wanted to speak, there was so much he wanted to _say_ , but he just _couldn’t_.  It was all stuck in his throat, no matter what he did.  Here…now…it wasn’t the place or time to say any of those things, and you were so tired and stressed…because of _him._   You needed to go home, get your own rest.  He’d talk to you later…

“I’ll be okay, you should go home,” Spencer urged, gently, entangling his hand with your own while being careful of the IV, and offered you a tired smile.  He would be fine, he just needed some time to rest.

You were too tired to argue, nodding and agreeing before getting up to leave.  You left, leaning over to kiss Spencer’s cheek without thinking before leaving to go home.  You said a brief farewell to Morgan, who gave you a one-armed hug as he told you to go get some rest and that he’d keep an eye on Reid for you.  He didn’t push, didn’t even ask about that little kiss he’d witnessed only seconds ago.  Now just wasn’t the time.

It could wait.

 

\--------------------------------------------------

 

You were conscious enough to get home, and to notice that the door to your apartment was unlocked.  You slipped your gun from its holster, holding it as you tactfully opened the door and stepped inside your apartment, immediately spotting Dave in the kitchen directly to the right-hand side of the front door.  You slipped your matte black Sig 1911, smaller than the usual Glock M9 but just as tactical with just as much of a punch, back into the holster at your hip as you stepped inside and shut your front door.

“You know, for someone who grew up in a series of million-dollar mansions you’d think you’d get a bigger apartment,” Rossi teased as he opened your fridge and pulled out the carton of eggs in there.  Your studio was large _for a studio._   A nice kitchen and dining room leading to your living room, with your bed tucked behind the couch and blocked from view by the wall lining the technical closet, washer/dryer, your closet, and the bathroom.  On the far side from the entrance was a practical wall of windows, two of which were sliding glass doors leading to a balcony overlooking D.C.  It was about the same size as your entire _bedroom_ suite at the cabin in Alaska your father had purchased when you were young.

Didn’t mean you didn’t love this apartment.  The tiled floors were smooth but stone-like, blended shades of gray and tan, and the carpet was a plush sandy-gray.  The walls were mostly white, but a gentle ivory and most of the time you could depend on the natural light coming through the windows to light everything but the bathroom.  It was soft, gentle, relaxing, your own little haven decorated in soft and stormy tones like stony or sandy browns, gray or sky blues, and darker whites.

“What’s the point of a five-room mansion if it’s just me and a goldfish?” you countered as you looked at the pan on the stove to see what Dave was making, “Smells good.”

“Won’t be done for a bit,” he replied simply, picking up the pan to shift the contents inside as he changed the subject, “So, you spent all night at the hospital.”

“I’m too tired for this, Dave, and now I’m hungry.  So, unless you’re about to tell me the food is ready, I just wanna get a shower.”

That was fair, so Dave kept his opinions to himself as you made your way over to your dresser and closet to grab some clean clothes before heading to your bathroom to take a much-needed shower.  Your hair was still a bit damp as you walked out in an old pair of gray sweats and a _Johns Hopkins University_ t-shirt, sitting at the table to sort through your mail as Dave finished making…well it would be your breakfast, but it was almost noon.  You looked up to see the goldfish bowl was empty, save for the gravel and decorations at the bottom, and heaved a sigh.

“I should have known Goldie-Fins would die sooner rather than later,” you muttered as you sorted bills from junk, tossing a high school reunion into the junk file, “Should have listened to Emily and got that cat.”

“How’s Doogie Howser doing?” Dave asked as he scraped lunch from the frying pan onto two different plates, placing the frying pan into the sink before grabbing forks and carrying the plates over to the table.

“He’ll make a full recovery, he’s just gotta rest for a bit,” you answered as you placed your bills aside and took the plate Dave was offering you before he sat down himself, “Which is good cause now I’m free to be mad at him for being an idiot.”

“Emma used to do that when I got hurt.  She stopped talking to me for a week, once,” Rossi reminisced, he didn’t talk about Emma a lot, but you knew about her.  She was the love of Dave’s life, but it never worked out.  He started the BAU, and next thing he knew his entire life had passed by and Emma was married to another man – a judge.  _Doomed to be star-crossed lovers_ , Dave said Emma called the two of them that.  If he was bringing her up…

If he was bringing her up, there would be no dodging the one conversation you really didn’t want to have.

“You know, more than anyone, that dating within the unit is a bad idea,” you pointed out, not looking up as you speared some of your food onto your fork to take a bite.  You had no snarky comments, no jokes, no way to change the subject.  All you had was facing the one conversation you really, really, _really_ didn’t want to have.

“Looks like you’re already in the deep end, Morgan said you just about lost your mind when you found out Reid got stuck in that lab.  Pacing, crying, you even snapped at Morgan when he called you out on it, didn’t care who heard you, and even after we all knew he’d be alright you stayed in the hospital with him all night,” Rossi pointed out, listing off just the events that happened just in the last 24 hours, “He was the only one you’d let in the door after that case in Dallas, you decided to stay behind in Vegas before he even told the team he was staying, you’re practically never apart, even able to communicate by just looking at each other.  And that’s just since I started.”

“I’m aware of my feelings, old man, it’s the… _sharing_ them that’s the problem,” you pointed out, “Whether you like it or not, it’s just better if I _don’t_.”

“Is it?”

He wasn’t always right, but sometimes you just wanted to _punch_ him when he was.

“Don’t make the same mistake I did, you’ll do nothing but regret it the rest of your life.”

 

\------------------------------------------------------------------

 

The next morning, you were woken up by your door opening and closing.  It _had_ been locked, you made sure to do that after Dave had left, and the only two people with spare keys were Dave and Spence.  Dave swore to leave you alone with your thoughts for the rest of the weekend, which meant it was most likely Spencer.

“Jesus Christ,” you muttered as you threw back the warm covers of your bed and felt a chill on your legs from only wearing shorts and an old pullover to bed.  You quickly made your way over to the door, you were right to expect it was Spencer as he was shutting the door to your apartment and locking it behind him.

“The hell are you doing here?” you gently chastised as you pulled him over to your bed so he could continue to rest, “You’re cured, but you’re still on bed rest for the next three days.”

“I know, and so does everyone else.  Everyone showed up at my apartment to _check up on me_ ,” Spencer didn’t argue as you pushed him towards your bed, quickly finding comfort in your warm blankets, “Yesterday afternoon I had Garcia, JJ, Prentiss, and Morgan all at my apartment at the same time.”

“Must have been standing room only, your place is tiny,” you teased lightly before making your way over to the kitchen to get a glass of water, “I’ll run interference, if anyone comes looking for you I’ll tell them to go back home.”

“Thanks,” Spencer’s voice was still hoarse from literally coughing up blood just the day before, and he sat up again to accept the glass of water you were offering, “Your goldfish die?”

“Yeah, Dave found Goldie-Fins dead when he came over yesterday, thinking I should get a cat this time,” you explained, sitting on your side of the bed and grabbing the book you’d left on the bedside table.  With all the cases and paperwork, you hadn’t been able to read nearly as much as you wanted.  You were still reading as Spencer relaxed into the bed an shut his eyes.  You thought he had fallen back asleep, but he caught your attention away from your book when he proved he wasn’t actually asleep.  You looked down at him, his head back on the pillows as he looked up at you with…if you didn’t know any better you’d think it was _adoration._

“You’re amazing, you know that?”  That look in his eyes, on his face, was completely serious and absolutely adoring.  It was all you could do not to get stuck staring at him like a deer caught in headlights, so you took a shaky breath and turned back to your book as you tried to ignore the thudding in your chest.

“I’m really not.”  You couldn’t even make sense of the words on the page in front of you.  They were there, you saw them, but they all just looked like… _images_ , like a completely foreign language in an alphabet you didn’t know.

That was hard, considering you were fluent in French, Spanish, Japanese, and Chinese, and had enough knowledge of Russian to stumble through a conversation or ask for directions.

“No, you _are_ ,” he urged, as much as he could in his exhausted state, reaching out from under those soft, soft blankets that smelled like a mixture of your laundry detergent, your shampoo, body wash, and just a dash of your perfume.  He took your hand, pulling it towards him and practically snapping your attention away from your book as you watched, dazed, as he pressed a gentle kiss to your knuckles and gave you a look that stopped your breath.

“I…” he stopped himself before sitting back up, looking up at you as he tried to explain the thoughts running through his head, faster than he could keep up with, “When I was in that lab, I the hospital…I realized I had a lot of regrets…but there was one that stuck out…”

“What…what was it?” you were quiet, dazed, and couldn’t break your gaze away.

“If I died…all I had to leave you was a voice message telling you everything you need to hear…telling you that I…” he paused, taking a deep breath to gather his nerve before he continued, never breaking eye contact.  It was too late, he already dove into the deep end and there was no swimming his way out midway through.  All he could do was say the words.

_“I love you.”_

You didn’t reply immediately, but he could see the thoughts running through your head, see the quiet catch of breath before you tried to reply, so he cut in and clarified before you could brush it all off as a platonic love.  That was what you’d do, you were so… _convinced_ you weren’t somebody that someone fell _in_ love with, not like he had.

“I’m _in_ love with you.”

He was…he…he just said…were you dreaming?  You’d never had dreams like this before, but there was a first time for everything, and dreams themselves are quite hard to predict.  No, that didn’t make any sense.  Every time you had a dream, you felt nothing _physical_ , and you certainly felt him holding your hand.

_How could this be real?_

Your brain reached a full stop.  You were running on full instinct, almost falling into Spencer as you pressed your lips against his.  It was all a blur of hands, blankets, and tangled limbs as you started out by moving to straddle Spencer’s lap before he rolled the two of you over, so you were lying underneath him on the bed.  Your hand was tangled in that mop of curls you loved so much, and _Jesus Fucking Christ_ his hair was actually softer than it looked.  You practically lost your mind when you felt him lightly bite at your bottom lip, the groan you let out bringing you back into your own head.

“Wait, wait, wait.”  You placed your hand on Spencer’s chest as you carefully pushed him back, “You’re supposed to be on _bed rest.”_

He was looking around at the bedding before looking at you, highly amused with himself as he reasoned, “We’re on a bed, that’s close enough.”

“You’re not the only doctor in the room, don’t give me that _second opinion_ bullshit,” you laughed as you sat up and nudged Spencer back onto the bed, “This, and the first date, are waiting until you’re off bed rest.”

“But – “

“No, none of that,” you cut in as you got up to make some breakfast for the two of you, Spence had shown up at your door at six in the damn morning, and stepped around to press one single, and chaste, kiss to Spencer’s lips and pulling away as he leaned into it, “I will let you take charge all you want when you’re back to 100 percent, but right now I’m the boss.”

That promise caught his attention _immediately,_ “Promise?”

You gave a little sultry smirk as you promised, “When you’re better I’ll be all yours, _Dr. Reid._ ”

The second you said that, Spencer knew the next few days were going to be hell.

So, so worth it, though.


End file.
